Inherent
by scrub456
Summary: A case goes awry resulting in John being injured. Sherlock is concerned when he refuses medical treatment & perplexed when it appears John & Lestrade have a secret. The next day John disappears & Sherlock panics. *My first attempt at case fic, based loosely on The Red-Headed League.*
1. Insight

"JOHN! Behind you!"

The choked warning came a moment too late as the thick end of a pool cue cracked across John's back. Unlike the movies, pool cues are surprisingly unyielding, especially so when forced into contact with the soft layers of skin and muscle stretched across a doctor's torso. John arched back, and then quickly doubled over the edge of the billiard table, gasping in pain.

Grinning maniacally, the looming assailant reared back, and with a feral roar swung the cue again.

"NO!" Sherlock screamed. At least, his intention was to scream. As it happened, he had been engaged in his own hand to hand combat with an ogre of a man. At the last moment he had blindsided Sherlock, and the consulting detective found himself in a choke hold, his larynx being agonizingly constricted in the crook of the much larger man's elbow. He swung his legs back with as much ferocity as his oxygen depleted body would allow, and missed his intended target. The choke hold tightened.

Though his vision blurred momentarily, Sherlock saw the slightest movement as John barely cocked his head enough to watch his own attacker take his shot. John's hand clamped down on something nearly imperceptibly, and he ducked just as the pool cue whizzed past his head. With a grunt John jumped to full military height, and Sherlock realized the man wielding the cue was nearly double the Captain's size.

Stunned at a miss, but recognizing a challenge when presented with one, the criminal lowered his shoulder and charged at the rigid doctor. Sherlock clawed and kicked at his captor, who merely tightened his hold and laughed. "Not enjoying the show?"

John braced himself for impact, and tracked his assailant's motions. Left shoulder forward. Low stance. Exposed right side. Not ideal, but he could work with it. John lowered his own stance just slightly, knowing his attacker would over compensate and follow suit in order to cause the greatest trauma to his core. Just as he felt the brute's breath and spittle, John once again stood full upright, reared his left arm back, and punched the other man in the jaw with all the force of his body.

As the criminal careened into John the raucous room was silenced by the sickening sound of bones crushing and sinew popping. The two men were entangled in a macabre embrace, and in what seemed like slow motion to Sherlock, they wavered upright for a moment, and when one of them, no one could quite tell who, attempted to pull himself free, they twisted around in a gruesome dance. The larger man collapsed on top of John, pinning him to the pool table at shoulder level. There was another nauseating crunch as a body was forced into an unnatural position, and they slid to the floor.

Neither man moved.

Sherlock, in a last ditch attempt to free himself feigned going limp, in hopes his own attacker would release him. As it turned out, the act was unnecessary. Recognizing that police and rescue would soon arrive, Sherlock was unceremoniously tossed to the grimy floor as the brute joined the mass of rowdy patrons making an exodus to the pub's exit.

"John," Sherlock rasped. "John!" He stumbled as he forced himself up. Dizziness overtook him, and he caught himself on the bar. "Call," he demanded of the unphased bartender, and slid one of Lestrade's well-worn business cards across the bar. He tapped it impatiently. "Now." The bartender shrugged, revealing no emotion, and dialed the number.

Sherlock turned to the tangle of men on the floor, with a slight shove off the bar, propelled himself to where John lay trapped under the hulk of a man. He stumbled slightly, but caught himself on the billiard table. Dropping to his knees he exerted his whole being into rolling the massive weight off of John. Ignoring the unconscious suspect, Sherlock checked John's pulse. Rapid. As expected. He placed his hand on John's right shoulder and lightly shook him. "John?"

"Stop! Stop. Oh God. Please stop." John swatted Sherlock's hand away and the movement made him groan in pain.

"You're hurt!" Sherlock growled. He hovered over John, quick hands examining John's head for contusions, and even quicker eyes scanning his face and eye movement for signs of concussion.

"Very astute, Sherlock. Now please. Get off me, and help me up. This floor is disgusting." With his left hand, John shoved Sherlock away and moved to sit upright. A wave of pain washed over him. "Nope. Not happening." With a gasp he lowered himself back down and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Lestrade's on his way. He'll bring help. Just hang on, okay? Don't... don't die." Sherlock looked stricken. John was in pain, but he couldn't figure out the cause. And this was all his fault.

The case had taken an unexpected turn. Sherlock had heard of an elaborate scheme to rob a bank from his homeless network. The plan involved detailed knowledge of the tunnels and sewage lines running under London. The robbery wasn't set to happen for another two days, so what harm could come from Sherlock dragging John into the ancient network of tunnels in order to pin down the most likely route the criminals would take.

Unfortunately, two days before the actual robbery was also the perfect time for the robbers to conduct a dry run of their heist.

The consulting detective and his blogger, with no notice to Scotland Yard, specifically D.I. Lestrade, had followed the tunnels to a trap door that opened into the storage closet of a nearby pub. As they neared their exit, the door creaked open from the other side. Before he could turn away, Sherlock was dragged up into the bar by his lapels, and engaged in a fist fight with a man who had nearly 100 pounds and about 6 inches in height on him. John scrambled to Sherlock's aide only to be knocked away by the second beast of a man.

"Die?" John wheezed a laugh. "I'm not dying." He stopped short as he noticed Sherlock's worried countenance. He was more pale than usual, and an angry bruise was surfacing around his neck. "Hey...hey, are you okay? Sherlock, look at me, let me see your neck."

"Irrelevant," Sherlock huffed, though at the doctor's pointed glare Sherlock pulled his scarf away and shrugged his great coat down over his shoulders. "Just a bruise. I'm fine."

John relaxed slightly. "Fine. Now, help me up, yeah?"

"John, I'm not completely convinced you haven't suffered spinal trauma. The ambulance should be here any moment. Please, just..."

"Sherlock, I'm a doctor. I think I would know if I had spinal trauma. Look..." John slowly and deliberately lifted both legs, one at a time, bending them at the knee, and wiggling his feet.

"Still, during your, ah, altercation," Sherlock began. John snorted at the word choice. "There was a distinct sound of bones being crushed upon your assailant making physical contact with you."

"Jaw," John interrupted. "Broke his jaw. Punched him with the eight ball in my hand."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but unable to resist his curiosity, he scrambled over the unmoving criminal, rolled him onto his back, and examined him closely. John's assessment had been accurate, the man's jaw was indeed shattered. The force of the blow had also caused damage to the nasal cavity. The man would live, but solid foods would not be an option for a very long time.

"Hmm. Adequately done, John." Sherlock nodded and turned toward the doctor, who had managed on his own to work himself into an upright seated position.

"Glad you approve," John grunted as he huffed in pain.

"No really... very well executed," Sherlock hoped his sincerity was evident. From the pleased look on John's face, he knew he had been understood.

"Sherlock, I know Lestrade's coming, but should you maybe restrain sleeping beauty there? If he wakes up, he's going to be angry. You can use my belt... but... I'm going to need... help." John blushed, but set to work trying to undo the clasp with only his left hand.

"What." It wasn't a question. Or a statement really. Sherlock was truly confused.

"I want you to use my belt to restrain gargantuan over there, but I can't take it off with one hand." John looked steadily at the consulting detective, despite the heat that spread across his cheeks. He quickly realized Sherlock wasn't understanding.

"When we toppled over and hit the pool table, the blob over there was dead weight. Caught my right arm on the table. Dislocated the shoulder."

In an instant Sherlock was back invading John's personal space. "I'm sorry, John. I didn't realize earlier, when I touched your shoulder. What else? What else is wrong?"

With a chuckle, and a grimace John responded, "Well, obviously the shoulder. My good one too. Lovely." He paused and inhaled deeply, then winced in pain. "Possibly a few cracked ribs... or at least a few bruised ribs. Bloodied left knuckles; that guy's face must be made of steel. And the bruise on my back will be there for a while."

Sherlock was still just inches away, looking rather unconvinced. "I'll be fine. Really. Now please... And I cannot believe I'm saying this... Take my belt off. Do it quickly before Donovan and Anderson get here." He sighed, "People will definitely talk."

Sherlock hesitated, but with a reassuring nod from John, he removed the belt and quickly secured the criminal's hands. Using his own belt he secured the feet. No sooner was he done than an agonized moan rose from the massive man.

"Right. Now help me up. I'm not going to be down here when he wakes up," John's Captain voice emerged from the weary looking man. If he hadn't been injured and propped up on the floor of a filthy dive in one of the more seedy parts of town, the contrast would have been comical.

Sherlock wasn't laughing.

"Tell me what to do. I don't want to hurt you." Sherlock stood to his feet.

"It's going to hurt. Just, here..." Using his feet and left hand John scooted away from the leg of the pool table he was leaning on. "Now, get behind me, put your hand under my left arm and pull me up. Use my belt loop if you need to."

"Your left arm? But, your bad shoulder..." Sherlock stayed frozen in his spot.

"Well, it's going to have to be my good shoulder, for a while at least. C'mon now."

It wasn't pretty, and there was a lot of grunting and apologizing, but the two managed to get John up from the sticky floor, and perched onto a bar stool as Lestrade and his team rushed in.

"What the..." Lestrade looked from the massive man bound on the floor to Sherlock's bruised neck to John cradling his arm and back to the man on the floor. "Okay, everything. Now."

"Stay here," Sherlock stated pointedly at John, and then walked Lestrade over to the trap door. John grunted, and nodded.

"Don't forget to mention that I'M the one who took that brute down, while the one you were mucking about with got away," John shouted after them. Sherlock rolled his eyes, huffed and waved him off. Lestrade struggled to hide a grin.

The explanation only took a few moments, but by the time Sherlock and Lestrade had returned to John's stool he had downed two shots of whiskey and had a third poised at his lips.

"Drinking on the job, doctor?" Lestrade laughed. "Really professional, yeah?"

"John?" Sherlock questioned. He already knew what John was going to say. "No. You need to go to the hospital. See a doctor."

"Nope. Just dulling the pain a bit. You're perfectly capable of popping this bloody thing back in place. I'll use your scarf as a sling," John attempted a shrug, but hissed in pain.

"Absolutely not. You're a doctor. You know full well the damage we could cause. Lestrade? Get a medic over here." Sherlock demanded.

Lestrade hesitated as he met John's glance.

"Fine, Lestrade you do it," John wasn't asking, he was ordering again.

"John, I think Sherlock's right..."

"Please Greg. Don't make me go to the hospital. Not tonight. They'll try to keep me. I'll have someone look at it tomorrow. Please." John was pleading now.

Swiping his hand over his face, Lestrade sighed in resignation. "Yeah, alright. Fine. Finish that drink first, there's a good man. Now stand up and brace yourself against the bar."

"Excuse me, what do you think..." Before Sherlock could adequately repremand either man, there was a horrendous crunch and pop, and John cried out in pain and swooned into Lestrade's chest. The D.I. steadied him easily, but was forcefully shoved aside by an enraged Sherlock.

"Idiots. Both of you." He snapped. "And what was that little exchange? Why can't you go to the hospital tonight John?"

"Just don't wanna go," John lightly slurred. The whiskey and pain were catching up with him. "Wanna go home."

"Not until one of you tells me what you're on about." He glared at Lestrade since John's head had begun drooping.

"Leave it be, Sherlock. Please. If John wants to discuss it, he'll tell you tomorrow," Lestrade's tone was even and measured.

With a grunt, Sherlock turned John around and leaned him against the bar. With deft hands and surprisingly gentle movements, he secured John's arm in a makeshift sling using his scarf. John really had thought of everything.

"Right. We're leaving," Sherlock snapped as he guided John to the door without a second look to Lestrade.

"What about the case? The other guy is still out there?" Lestrade cried after them.

"Oh, for the love of... He won't be that hard to find." Sherlock cast a glance at the bartender, who had remained oddly silent during the whole ordeal. "He works here. Possible relation... Son. No... Stepson, of our proprietor here. He'd be more than happy to talk, I'm sure. Especially since John made sure our friend over there," he nodded to the now awake, and very agitated criminal, "won't be talking any time soon." Sherlock looked at the drooping doctor with a brief flash of fondness, which was quickly replaced with an unreadable, icy glare. "Besides, this place is in violation of at least 11 VISIBLE health codes."

With that Sherlock blustered out the door, with John in tow, and quickly hailed a cab.

The cab ride to Baker Street was silent. Sherlock had made sure to sit to John's left, so the doctor could lean on him if need be. Slightly inebriated, and fully exhausted, John took advantage of the proffered shoulder and quickly dozed off, groaning in discomfort any time the cab hit a bump. Sherlock brooded. How had he missed the criminals potentially conducting a practice run? Even if the bartender was in on it, none of the men seemed intelligent enough to warrant that much preparation. How had he miscalculated his sparring partner's movements? He seldom faltered in hand to hand combat, but tonight he had, and John had ended up injured because of it. And what of the cryptic exchange between John and Lestrade? It had stopped the D.I. in his tracks. What did John have on him?

"Baker Street, gents," the cabbie broke the silence. Sherlock paid the driver, and helped the stumbling John out of the car.

"Alright, let's get you some aspirin and a proper sling, and into bed," Sherlock made every effort to keep his voice even. Lestrade was right. He'd let John sleep this off, and ask him his questions tomorrow.

"Tea?" John mumbled as he nearly tripped slowly climbing the steps to the flat.

"Of course," Sherlock agreed, helping John right himself on the steps, then steering him to his chair. "We need to get that jumper off." Sherlock thought a moment. "How attached to it are you? I'm thinking we cut it off."

John nodded, "Fine. Won't hurt that way."

Sherlock stepped into the kitchen to start the kettle. He retrieved John's medical kit, as well as his best pair of scissors and a pack of frozen peas wrapped in a kitchen towel.

"This will just take a minute, John." Sherlock dug in the kit and found the sling, as well as some aspirin. "Here. Need water?" John shook his head no and swallowed them dry. Sherlock could face any number of revolting things, but he would never understand how John could dry swallow pills. The very thought turned his stomach.

Very carefully Sherlock unwound his scarf from John's arm and slowly maneuvered him out of his coat. With as much care as possible Sherlock cut away John's jumper, being careful to snip along the seams. Maybe Mrs. Hudson could salvage it. He unbuttoned John's shirt and carefully slid it off, only causing John to cry out once. He decided it would be best to leave the undershirt in place.

"John, I'm going to check out the bruise on your back. Can you lean forward for me?" The drowsy doctor complied, and Sherlock eased the shirt up. The deep red line ran at a diagonal angle from just below his right shoulder blade all the way across his back to just below his left ribs. Black and purple tinged the skin around the line, and there were a few minor cuts. All told, the bruising was a band six inches wide for the entire length, and was only going to get worse. Sherlock quickly cleaned the wound and applied some ointment. No stitches would be necessary.

Sherlock noted the angry bruising forming around John's shoulder. The discoloration was visible through the shirt material.

Taking John's left hand up, Sherlock carefully cleaned the bloodied knuckles. The criminal's face had really done a number, but the reinforcement of the pool ball had helped prevent too much extensive damage. He would definitely need a hand x-ray, just to be sure. With feather light touch he applied ointment and bandages as necessary.

Work at the clinic would have to wait a few days. Sherlock set a mental reminder to contact someone and let them know John would not be in.

"Do you want to sleep with the sling on or off?" Sherlock asked. John thought about this, but Sherlock could tell his cognitive reasoning was shutting down quickly. "How about on? At least tonight, for support?"

"Yeah. Good," John nodded.

Sherlock bound John into the sling and slid the pack of frozen peas in against the shoulder.

"Ok. Bed now. Would my room be easier?" Sherlock was tentative.

"N...no. My bed." John started to stand, and swayed before plopping back down.

"Let me help." Taking John's left arm as gently as possible, Sherlock lifted him from his seat. The climb up the stairs was slow but uneventful. Angling John into his room, Sherlock remembered the tea. "John, you get comfortable, and I'll bring you some tea. I'll be right back."

He bounded down the stairs and to the kitchen, and had to wait impatiently for the tea to steep. Filling a glass with water, just in case, he returned to find John struggling to straighten his pillows. He placed the tea and water on the bedside table, thankful to realize it was located to John's left. He helped arrange the pillows in a slightly elevated position, and straightened John's covers around him.

Glancing around Sherlock noticed John's mobile on the floor near where he had kicked off his trousers. He retrieved the phone and plugged it into the charger, placing it also on the nightstand. Sherlock started to ask if John needed anything else, but the doctor's even breathing revealed he was already asleep. "Rest well, John," Sherlock whispered as he flipped off the overhead light.

John stirred. "Sherlock?" He called softly.

"I'm here, John."

"Don't go anywhere."

Sherlock furled his brow. "Do you want me to sit with you tonight John?"

"No... No... Just, don't leave. Okay? Promise... You won't leave again?" There was a hint of frantic in the plea, but not enough to actually rouse John from his prone state.

Sherlock was taken aback. Where was this coming from? "Of course John."

"Say you promise." Despite their urgency, John's words were getting softer and more slurred with sleep. Sherlock wondered if John would even remember this exchange tomorrow.

"I promise, John. I won't leave again."

John sighed, and almost as quickly as he woke was asleep once more.

"Curious," Sherlock stated to no one in particular.


	2. Subjective

With a gasp and a start Sherlock Holmes awoke. It took a moment for his sharp eyes to focus on the weave of the fabric covering the back of the couch. Stifling a yawn, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and nonchalantly resumed his pondering. With the exception of the barely noticeable drool spot on the pillow, no one would ever be the wiser.

He hadn't intended to fall asleep. Apparently, exhaustion was an after effect of oxygen deprivation. He would add that to the list.

Listening to the sounds out on the street, and gaging the angle of sunlight cast through the window, Sherlock surmised it must be 7:53 am. He was fairly certain it was Monday. Clinic day for John, meaning the doctor would've ordinarily already been up and gone.

Depending on the accuracy of these most probable facts, Sherlock fished behind him, without actually rolling over, for the cup of tea John always left for him. He was not disappointed.

Except something was different. He flicked away the loose paper that had come to rest against the mug and stuck his index finger into the liquid.

Positively tepid.

The tea had obviously been made at approximately 6:49 am. A full 23 minutes earlier than normal.

Sherlock attempted to jump from his spot on the couch, only to have his body rebel. His shoulders and arms ached and his neck was inordinately stiff. He rubbed his hand around his neck and yelped in pain when he brushed against the bruising just under his jaw.

Right. Oxygen deprivation due to strangulation. He recalled the events of the prior evening.

Turning his attention to the conundrum of the cold tea in front of him, the pieces began to fall into place. John had been injured, a dislocated shoulder, amongst other more minor contusions and abrasions. There was only one logical solution. He must have woken early, come downstairs for some aspirin, made Sherlock his morning tea, and gone back to bed. Sherlock would have been too lost in thought (and definitely NOT asleep) to acknowledge John's presence.

John was nothing if not predictable in his morning routines.

Sherlock picked up his mobile and dialed the clinic. Someone ought to let them know John would not be in. After two rings an unfamiliar, and saccharine sweet voice chirped a greeting.

"Good morning! You've reached the clinic! This is Mary, how can I direct your call?"

"Good Lord, who hired you? Are you always so fake, or only with strangers?" Sherlock growled, convinced the decibel of the woman's voice was going to pierce right through his skull.

The woman released a shocked gasp, and remained in stunned silence. "Ugh, I don't have time for this. Get Sarah," Sherlock demanded.

"Ex... excuse you," Mary interjected. "I don't care for your tone. I don't think I will be getting Sarah for you."

"Are you an imbecile, or has no one explained to you the finer details of being a receptionist? You pick up the phone. You transfer the calls." Sherlock was actually kind of enjoying this, though his patience was being tried. "Put. Sarah. On. Now."

"Listen here, you little," Mary's tone had settled into a threatening rumble. Just before she had time to release her vulgar tirade Sherlock heard another female speak behind her. Mary relented the phone to the second person, and Sherlock could hear drawers and cabinets be slammed. He forced himself not to smile.

"What do you want, Sherlock? John's not here," Sarah's forced tone was about as pleasant as she ever got with the consulting detective. And somehow she always knew when it was Sherlock on the other end of the line.

"About that, he won't be in at all today. There was an... incident..."

"I know he won't be in. He requested this day off months ago," Sarah paused. "Sherlock," her voice wavered, "he takes this day off every year."

Sherlock sat stunned. The inflection in Sarah's voice meant he should understand the implied meaning of her words.

He was at a loss.

So he faked it.

"Right," he replied slowly. "How... ridiculous of me." When Sarah only sighed in response, Sherlock knew he wasn't going to get any information from her. "Well, goodbye then."

"Uh, yeah, Sherlock."

"And Sarah, for what it's worth... Mary? She's just... delightful." The sarcastic sneer on Sherlock's face could be perceived through the phone connection. Sarah slammed the receiver down.

How did John cope with these commoners? No wonder his mental facilities often seemed to be dimmer than usual after his shift.

Sherlock decided he would let John sleep a while longer before insisting he have his injuries checked over. He must truly have been spent to return to bed.

Despite the fact that John became an incoherent bumbling mess if he missed too many consecutive nights of sleep, the man's internal alarm clock was precise as any Swiss time piece. Even after so many years out of the service, reveille was as much a part of John as anything could be, as if the bugle call pulsed through his very veins. Sherlock could count on one hand the number of times he remembered the Captain not rising with the sun.

Abandoning the cold tea, Sherlock set about deciphering Sarah's message to him. "He takes this day off every year," she had said. And there was sentimentality behind those words. A deeper meaning.

John had the day off, so he must have made plans. Sherlock slumped into the chair at the table and flipped open John's lap top. He had long since stopped trying to set a pass code to keep Sherlock out of his personal business. It was just easier for everyone involved.

He checked John's online calendar first. The doctor had been reluctant to even set up the account. John Watson did not need reminders. Unlike Sherlock, who couldn't be bothered to remember such mundane and cumbersome details as what day the dry cleaning would be ready, or what time a client meeting was scheduled for, John remembered. Without fail. It was a trait that was both a blessing and curse. Blessing because he could always be prepared, and could occasionally keep Sherlock on track. Curse because, since having met the consulting detective, he had missed approximately 73% of his scheduled events.

Sherlock couldn't hide the grin as he recalled watching John, early in their acquaintance, very nearly short circuit the first few times he had caused the doctor to miss appointments. John seldom reacted now, or rather, he had grown more proficient in concealing his frustration.

No, John did not have need of an online calendar to mark the appointments he had missed. He kept the calendar updated so that Sherlock would have an outline of where he could be found at any given time, on the rare occasion he was actually able to go about his life outside the confines of 221b Baker Street and the demands of the madman who resided there.

To John's chagrin, it was not a courtesy that was reciprocated.

This particular Monday had been labeled in red, but there were no accompanying notes or alerts. It was the only day the entire month void of any data at all, with the exception of the color designation. Sherlock scanned through the notes and appointments on the calendar, deciding there was nothing noteworthy to be gleaned.

"What a dull existence you lead, John Watson. If it weren't for me, how would you even survive the monotony of it all?"

He clicked the back arrow, in order to scan through previous months. There were several months with notations listed every day, but those only went back about six months. As with his blog, John had not maintained the calendar in Sherlock's two and a half year absence after "the fall."

John hated it when Sherlock referred to his faked suicide as "the fall." He had tried to convince Sherlock the nomenclature was boorish and insensitive. Sherlock always retorted that John's unpoetic turn of phrase, "the day you left," was equally garish and overly sentimental. They had reached an impasse, and had not spoken for three days after that particular argument. The debate had never been settled. Sherlock assumed John had simply accepted his logic as correct and conceded the victory. Obviously, after the exchange of the previous evening, Sherlock had been incorrect.

John still worried about Sherlock leaving.

Sherlock would have to take extra care in dispelling the preposterous concern when they had their discussion later, after John finally woke up, and after an examination by a medical professional. John was a notoriously poor patient, opting rather to self-diagnose. Sherlock was certain he would be in for a fight. Maybe he would delay a little longer.

With a yawn Sherlock rang Lestrade.

"This is Lestrade." The D.I.'s voice rang with a hint of laughter.

"Can I assume from your joyous tone that your team apprehended the second suspect after John and I left the scene last night?" Sherlock snarked.

Greg coughed and sputtered, "Oh, uh, Sherlock…" He cleared his throat and assumed a more serious tone. "No. Ah, no, not yet."

"Typical." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't suppose you actually took the bartender into custody either? He's clearly a key player in the whole scheme…" Sherlock trailed off as he realized Lestrade was not listening. He could tell Lestrade had his hand over the phone's receiver and there was muffled shushing and giggling. Lestrade snorted in an effort to cover a laugh.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm in a… a meeting. You and John come by the Yard later and we'll go over everything."

"Lestrade…"

"Sherlock, I really have to go. Just…" The D.I. was near dissolving into a fit of giggles. "Just come by later, okay? And Sherlock, be nice to John, today especially. He's in a… fragile state." There was a commotion in the background, followed by a muffled "Ow!" from Lestrade. "Later, yeah?"

Sherlock dropped his phone with a clatter onto the table. "Incompetent," he huffed in frustration, but in a flash of realization, snatched the mobile up once more and texted Lestrade.

 _"Wait. What did you mean by 'today especially?' SH"_

 _"You know. GL"_

 _"Explain. SH"_

 _"Meeting. Talk later. GL"_

For being one of the Yard's "finest," Lestrade certainly was irksome. With a sigh Sherlock returned his attention to John's calendar.

So. Tediously. Exhaustingly. Boring.

Deciding to overlook John's blog for the time being, he had already carefully scrutinized and picked apart every detail of the last paltry entry and left multiple condescending comments to that effect, Sherlock opted to bathe and dress for the day. He'd let John sleep a few more minutes before dragging him off to Bart's to be examined and x-rayed. Then maybe they'd visit Lestrade and actually track down their suspect. And then definitely the conversation. Yes, a perfectly acceptable plan. Hospital. Suspect. Talk. John would be pleased that Sherlock had been so considerate as to plan a coherent, if somewhat fluid, schedule for their day.

Feeling very satisfied with himself, Sherlock traipsed up the stairs to John's room, and began addressing the doctor before he even reached the door.

"Alright, John, I know you aren't thrilled with the idea, but I must insist you allow yourself to be examined by a physician. I simply cannot abide you being in anything other than top form if you are to continue..." Sherlock halted just inside the bedroom.

The bed was made; not with the usual military precision, but near enough considering the person who had creased the corners had done so with a very recently dislocated and then poorly relocated shoulder. The soiled clothes from the night before had been picked up from the floor and placed neatly, yes neatly, because that is how Captain John Watson sorts his dirty laundry, in the hamper (a very telling characteristic, actually). The mug and water glass were gone from the bedside table, as was John's phone. In their place lay the neatly wound charger cord.

With a loud huff and a roll of his eyes, Sherlock stormed from the room. Even when he was injured, John was frustratingly meticulous. But that point was completely irrelevant. John was not in his room. Why wasn't he in his room?

Sherlock sent John text. _"Where are you? SH"_

Taking the steps two at a time and hitting the landing with unnecessary force, Sherlock stomped into the kitchen. John's medical kit was back in its place on the counter, meaning John had cleaned up Sherlock's mess, yet again. He stalked to the cabinet and flung it open to see John's mug and water glass on their respective shelves. John had done dishes. How dare he? Did he not know he was injured? He was not meant to tidy up after himself, let alone Sherlock. At least not this soon. But probably by tomorrow. Tomorrow would be okay for him to resume his duties.

 _"You are aware I was prepared to accompany you to have your shoulder examined? SH"_

 _"Mycroft's paying. SH"_

 _"Fine, you may pay if you insist. But can we sign Mycroft up for inappropriate subscriptions using the cards in those old magazines in the waiting room? SH"_

His sense of self-satisfaction having dissipated completely, Sherlock determined to locate the good doctor immediately. Not to check his welfare, but to reprimand him until he understood what it meant to be a good patient.

 _"_ _You're infuriating, you know that right? SH"_

With absolutely no regard for propriety, Sherlock burst into the bathroom and slammed on the light switch. The fact that he himself had very recently occupied the space should have quelled his manic eagerness, but he paid no mind to the obvious. Sherlock ran his thumb over the bristles of John's toothbrush. Still wet. John's towel had been left to dry on the rack. Sherlock took the corner of it between his thumb and forefinger placing a section of the towel to his nose and inhaled deeply, in order to get an accurate measure of dampness. John had showered at approximately 6:27 AM.

A bit not good.

That's what John would say if he were present. And perhaps something about replacing his toothbrush. "But you aren't here," Sherlock mumbled. "So who cares what you think?"

 _"You should probably pick up a new toothbrush while you're out. Or not. Depends on how much you trust me. SH"_

Knowing full well the unlikelihood, Sherlock conducted a quick check of his own room, just to make certain John had not retired there since he had remained on the couch overnight. John was not to be found.

 _"John. SH"_

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock bellowed as he slammed his bedroom door behind him and trampled down the stairs to the dear lady's flat. Pounding emphatically on the door, Sherlock continued calling her name. "Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hud..."

"Good gracious, Sherlock, whatever is the matter? Is it a fire? Made another murderous client angry?" Mrs. Hudson had swung the door open in a panic. The color had drained from her face, her eyes were slightly wild, one hand clutched the top of her dressing gown and the other fidgeted nervously with the few curlers that remained in her hair.

Having been interrupted mid-pound, Sherlock froze with one fist raised, ready to strike. He cleared his throat, ducked his head apologetically, and murmured "Have you seen John?"

"Honestly, Sherlock. You nearly gave an old woman a heart attack, all because you've misplaced your flat mate? He's a grown man Sherlock. Did you try calling him?" Mrs. Hudson had placed her hands on her hips and taken on the tone of a scolding mother. Sherlock tried to interrupt her. "Don't you talk over me, young man. It is entirely too early in the morning to be carrying on this way. You should be ashamed. If John Watson has a reason for being out at this hour, then I am certain it is a perfectly good one. Especially today of all days!" She punctuated her speech with a stomp. "Do you understand? What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Yes ma'am," Sherlock was positively sheepish in his response. With hands shoved deep in his pockets and eyes averted, he looked every bit the apologetic child. "Sorry... I'm sorry Mrs... Wait. What did you just say?"

Crossing her arms over her chest, Mrs. Hudson huffed, "Which part, Sherlock?"

"Why did you say, 'especially today of all days?' What does that mean?" Sherlock had taken ahold of Mrs. Hudson by the shoulders and had lowered his face to be even with hers.

"It... It's just a... An expression. People say it sometimes. I say it..." Mrs. Hudson's voice faltered in uncertainty, but she admirably managed to maintain eye contact with Sherlock's precision glare.

"But why did YOU say it? Why is everyone using that phrase in reference to today? Is there something unusual about today? Is something wrong with John? Tell me!" Sherlock's questions were rapid fire, and he had to restrain himself to keep from shaking his landlady. He was seething, and in her hesitation to respond, Sherlock opened his mouth to lay into her one more time.

He did not get the opportunity. Mrs. Hudson wrenched herself free from his grasp and proceeded to smack him across the face with all the force she could muster.

"You... you hit me!" The consulting detective was stunned speechless.

"You'll get worse than that if you ever act this way again. It's not my fault you don't pay enough attention to John, or to anyone else for that matter, to remember what today is. You'll get no help from me, Sherlock Holmes. I'm not one of your criminals to be manhandled. I suggest you march yourself upstairs and wait for John to return." Mrs. Hudson turned on her heel, and slammed the door in her tenant's face. As an afterthought, she shouted through the door, "You can forget the scones I was going to bring up to you... But John can still have his. And yours!"

Sherlock was certain John would tell him he should feel something, perhaps remorse, or worse, guilt, for causing Mrs. Hudson such distress. He really only felt a growing sense of urgency. Something was off. First John and Lestrade, now Sarah and Mrs. Hudson, had all referred to this day with a reverential acknowledgement. And now John was nowhere to be found. What could it all mean? What was he missing?

Sitting with a thud on a stair Sherlock dialed John's number. He wasn't responding to texts, but maybe he would answer a call. Sherlock usually only called when it was an emergency, that should get John's attention.

The phone didn't even ring, but went straight to voice mail.

"You have GOT to be kidding me. John Watson, you contact me immediately!" Sherlock roared into the phone, displeased that pressing the end button just didn't have the same impact as slamming the receiver down had earlier when Sarah had hung up on him.

 _"Mrs. Hudson hates me. It's all your fault. You should buy her something nice when you replace your toothbrush. SH"_

 _"ANSWER ME. RIGHT NOW. SH"_

When a response text didn't arrive, Sherlock jumped to his feet and ran up the stairs, attempting to ring John once more. Yet again the call went straight to voice mail. He drew his arm back to throw the phone down the steps, but thought better of it at the last moment as he realized he had yet to replace his replacement phone after what John had dubbed "the noodle incident." Despite himself, Sherlock chuckled at the memory, until he realized John's voice mail was still recording.

"I am NOT laughing because of something ridiculous you said once. To the contrary. You're being an idiot and I hate you right now." He disconnected the call and stormed into the flat. Stopping short, Sherlock took his time scanning every inch of the sitting room for any sort of clue as to where John could have gone.

The small, well-worn notebook John took along on cases remained in its spot next to his laptop. Not casework then.

However, the pen John kept tucked in the tablet was absent. It had been an obligatory Christmas gift from Mycroft, and as such, was inordinately fine, especially held in contrast to the shabby leather bound notebook. John was cautiously protective of it. Sherlock scoffed. So, John needed a pen. Signing documents, perhaps. Definitely something important, to warrant the use of said coveted writing implement.

Sherlock noncommittally rifled through the mound of mail and loose papers on the coffee table, tossing envelopes and glossy fliers alike to the floor. With a huff he sent the whole mess cascading over the edge of the table, deeming the lot of it completely dull and unnecessary.

John's coat hung on its designated hook, while a cherished, nearly threadbare, button up cardigan John often wore around the flat was missing. Ease of use, Sherlock decided. The coat was decidedly more cumbersome, especially with a dislocated shoulder. It also reeked of stale alcohol, the sweat of one behemoth thug, and whatever other unsavory substances had been puddled on the filthy floor of the pub where John had been attacked last night. Given enough time, Sherlock was certain he could figure out the exact coctail of grime adorning John's coat.

Perhaps another time.

" _Should have dropped your coat at the cleaners since you were going out. Maximize your time. Think, John. SH"_

Not wanting to miss a thing, Sherlock examined the contents of John's coat pockets. A few coins, a random button (" _A button, John? Really? What does it even belong to? Is it yours? Mine? SH_ "), assorted first aid supplies (bandages, ointments, aspirin), a rather nice pocket knife (" _Lovely pocket knife, John. I think I'll hold onto it for you. SH_ "), and a small supply of latex gloves and evidence bags. Sherlock hummed in appreciation. Captain John H. Watson, MD. Always prepared.

As he shuffled through the assorted bandages, a business card flitted to the floor at his feet. He picked it up and examined it closely. Law Offices of Lakhany, Slate, Vogel, and Weir. Sherlock recognized the firm. He tapped the card against his lips a few times as he thought. The senior partner, Mr. Albert Lakhany, Esq., was an old family friend. His specialty was settling estates. This particular law firm had never been involved in any of Sherlock's cases, and he had made especially certain that John had been shielded from encountering any unnecessary acquaintance or relation of the Holmes family. There really was no reason to subject the man to such torture. Hadn't he endured enough in his life?

Sherlock stood still, still tapping the card to his lips, contemplating any possible scenario that could possibly explain how John had come to possess the calling card. "Mycroft," the younger Holmes growled. That explained the "how." There were three people who knew the "why." One of them was actively avoiding him at the moment, and one was bound by law to keep the reason private.

That left Mycroft. Sherlock shuddered, and reluctantly dialed the number.


	3. Elementary

"Why, brother dearest, to what do I owe this great pleasure? Especially on this most auspicious of days?"

"Mycroft, you can shove..."

"Ah, ah, ah, little brother. This call may be recorded for safety and training purposes."

"When AREN'T you recording my calls, you... you... ugh!"

Ashamed at his lack of a truly scathing insult, Sherlock pulled the phone from his ear and glared down at the contact picture of his older brother. It was the worst picture Sherlock could find of Mycroft, and the face that grinned pompously back at him still dripped with proper English gentleman.

He just couldn't take it.

"Not worth it!" Sherlock shouted in the general direction of the phone in his hand. He disconnected the call.

Honestly. Ending an angry call by mobile had proven completely unsatisfactory, repeatedly, and was quickly becoming the bane of his very existence.

 _"URGENT. Procure an old landline phone. With the cords and buttons. No rotary dials. And a proper, sturdy base that can withstand abuse. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"A black one. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"With the stretchy spiral cord. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"For science. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"Also, we'll need a landline. I'm sure even you figured that out. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"JOHNNN. SH"_ _  
_

As nimble fingers fidgeted, poised to continue the text assault on one Captain John H. Watson, MD, in absentia, an incoming call rang in. Sherlock fumbled and nearly dropped the phone, and with great expectation answered the call.

"Where are you?" Sherlock hoped his voice portrayed just the right amount of angry venom combined with a hint of concern. Not too much concern though, it would never do for John to think Sherlock had gone suddenly sentimental.

Because he had most definitely NOT.

"Hmm, you do realize there is no need to deduce phone calls now? Your mobile has a lovely feature, caller I.D. isn't it? It really is a marvel of modern technology."

Sherlock exhaled deeply in frustration. Stepping over the coffee table he flopped onto the sofa. "What do you want, Mycroft? I'm really rather preoccupied with a case."

"If recollection serves, you called me first, brother." Mycroft's petulant tone grated on Sherlock's every last nerve. "You weren't, by chance, calling to inquire into the significance of this particular date in history, as it pertains to one John Watson?"

Sherlock growled. "Out with it!"

"Temper, brother," Mycroft warned. He paused and cleared his throat. When next he spoke, he had taken on more gentle tone. To the uninitiated he would have sounded caring, compassionate even. Sherlock knew better. This was Mycroft's I-am-only-saying-this-once-and-for-your-benefit-alone-so-do-not-even-think-about-interrupting voice. Sherlock sat up a little straighter, as if the elder Holmes were actually in the room with him (despite their best efforts, Mycroft was always a step ahead of John and Sherlock when it came to hidden cameras in the flat; it was entirely likely Mycroft had eyes on Sherlock during this entire exchange, so for all intents and purposes, he was indeed in the room).

"Have you looked at a calendar today, Sherlock?"

"As a matter of fact, I have. Your little cameras miss that? I fail to see…"

Mycroft interrupted, "Ah, you SAW a calendar, but you failed to observe."

"I swear on all that you hold dear, if you do not get to the point…" Sherlock was working himself into a rage now. How dare Mycroft use his own words against him? But threatening Mycroft only ever ended poorly for Sherlock. Who knew what God awful "errand" Mycroft would send him on if he became too belligerent. Through clenched teeth he decided, for the sake of gathering information, and self-preservation, to go a different direction.

"Of course I observed. John's calendar is full of appointments and events. Except for today. Today is blank, with the singular distinction of being highlighted in red."

"And what might we gather from that data?" Mycroft asked, with that same not-compassionate-because-I-know-what-you-do-not tone.

"What data? There. Is. No. Data. Unless… No."

"Unless what? Could it be? Perhaps Dr. Watson did not want you to see what he was planning for today?" Mycroft supplied.

"No," Sherlock said slowly. "John tells me everything. And what he doesn't tell me, I deduce. The man is an open book." Sherlock ran his free hand through his hair in dismay. "John doesn't keep secrets from me." He had a growing sensation in the pit of his stomach. It couldn't be sadness. No. Most definitely not. Nor could it be loneliness; specifically the kind of loneliness that comes when one is left on the outside looking in. No. Because those are emotions, and emotions lend themselves to sentimentality, and Sherlock Holmes and sentiment do not even exist on the same plane.

Mycroft cleared his throat in order to draw Sherlock from his thoughts. "Brother dearest, while I am inclined to draw this out for as long as possible, I simply do not have the time to continue this emotional torment. I'm going to send you a link to CCTV footage of your doctor from earlier this morning. Watch it all the way through, will you? And keep in mind today's date. You do know the date?"

"I didn't... actually notice the date," Sherlock's voice was small. He felt defeated. Even Mycroft was in on the secret. That meant this date was of the utmost importance. Sherlock's mind raced. Certainly he would remember his own birthday. Right?

"Today is May 4th." The hitch in Mycroft's voice would have been imperceptible to anyone else. Sherlock heard it immediately.

"Mycroft?"

"I'm late for a meeting. Just, watch the video, and try to avoid doing anything reckless. And Sherlock…" Mycroft hesitated as if he were considering his words carefully. "Ahem, yes. Happy Anniversary." The call ended abruptly.

Sherlock, dumbstruck, stared at the mobile in his hand. "What does that mean?" He screamed at the silent phone.

Not only had Mycroft successfully goaded him into an internal torrent of emotion, he had distracted him from his original intent. All he had wanted was to ask about the business card in John's coat pocket.

Sherlock roared and kicked at the coffee table, causing the cold tea to swirl and slosh over the rim of the mug.

 _"JOOOHNNN. I. Hate. Everyone. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"You especially. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"Mycroft most of all. Mycroft. Then you. Lastly, everyone else. SH"_

In a shockingly agile move, Sherlock jumped to his full height and stood trembling in the middle of the couch. In full blown tantrum, he continued to rage. "Why have I allowed myself to be surround by completely useless, and utterly..."

The electronic ping of an incoming e-mail silenced his tirade and ceased his mad stomping. With perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm, he sprang from the couch, stepping to the coffee table, and stumbled to the floor. With minimal flailing of his arms he managed to stay on his feet, righted himself, and straightened his suit. Glancing around the room to make certain no one had seen the ungraceful dismount, Sherlock spotted one of Mycroft's hidden cameras tucked into the bookshelf. He made a rude gesture in the general direction of the invasive device, implicating Mycroft's mother in a rather obscene manner; the insult made all the more offensive by the fact that they happened to share the same maternal genetic coding.

Snatching John's laptop from the table, Sherlock opened the e-mail, clicked on the link, and with a sigh flopped, rather too dramatically, into his chair. The skull on the mantle stared back at him, unimpressed. "Who asked you?" Sherlock snapped.

After a moment of buffering, a grainy view of Baker Street filled the laptop screen. Sherlock considered the location of the camera, as it revealed their front door from above and slightly to the side, with the front of Speedy's fully in view. "Hm, that's a new angle." Barely had he calculated the exact location of the camera when their front door opened and out stepped John.

Sherlock quickly took stock of his flat mate. Grey button up cardigan rather than his coat, a fact Sherlock had already established. Pale blue button up shirt, the one that accentuates John's eyes so well. Ahem. Yes. Nice khakis. Boring. Hideous brown loafers. Sherlock had insisted John never wear them when they were in public together. But they didn't require tying, so the logic behind wearing them was sound. Black tie... No, navy. The quality of the image made it hard to differentiate the slight color difference.

Wait.

 _"A tie John? SH"_

He would come back to that. A tie was important. John Watson in a tie meant business.

Continuing his assessment, Sherlock noted John had a backpack slung over his left shoulder only. The sling was absent from his right arm.

 _"Seriously, John? It's evident you are still in considerable pain. Why didn't you wear the sling? SH"_  
 _  
_ _"I know you are a very proud man, but there is absolutely nothing shameful in asking for help. SH"_  
 _  
_ _"I don't actually hate you. SH"_

The knuckles on John's left hand were still bandaged. At least he had the sense to keep them wrapped.

John turned in the direction of the camera, and winced in pain as he had obviously momentarily forgotten about his shoulder and reached up with his right hand to close the door with the knocker. He switched tactics and reached for the doorknob. Sherlock frowned. It was a minor injury really, a mere inconvenience, but he had gotten it defending Sherlock. Always the soldier. One of these times John was going to get into a situation he couldn't get himself out of.

Maybe it was time to rethink their strategies for apprehending suspects.

But being careful is soul crushingly boring. Sherlock was certain John would concur.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the screen as John turned on to Baker Street and headed in the direction of the tube station.

 _"How do you tolerate the tube? All the people, and noise, and germs, and people. Ghastly. SH"_ _  
_

Assuming the next several minutes would be footage of John walking to the tube, entering the station, boarding the tube, riding the tube, exiting the tube, leaving the station, and walking to Bart's, Sherlock pressed rapid play on the video to speed things along.

Ever the unpredictable variable, John stopped short, ducked into Speedy's, emerged with a disposable coffee cup (based on the time stamp, 7:03 am, John would've ordered a tea), stopped to chat with the perky blonde and her shy brunette friend sitting outside the shop. "Oh, come off it. They're entirely too young for you!" Sherlock sneered as he glanced up at John's chair.

Right. No John.

 _"You probably reminded those girls of their fathers. You're a sick man, John Watson. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"I thought I told you to destroy those loafers. SH"_ _  
_

On the screen John stepped away from the young ladies, and winced in pain (eliciting yet another frown from his flat mate) as he raised his right hand to summon a cab. He briefly glanced up at the camera and then ducked into the waiting car. Even in rapid play, it was almost as if he had intentionally made eye contact with Sherlock.

 _"Knew I'd be watching. Clever, Doctor. SH"_ __

  
The next several scenes were simply footage of John's cab making its way through London traffic to St Bartholomew's Hospital. With an exasperated sigh, Sherlock declared the footage boring and skipped completely ahead to John entering the hospital. Though he knew patient privacy laws were being broken, he was grateful to Mycroft for tapping in to the hospital security system. He narrowed his eyes in frustration as he watched John bypass general registration, the emergency unit, and radiology. "Where are you going, John?" Sherlock set the video to play at standard speed in order to more carefully observe John's movement.

John's stride was casual, unhurried. He struggled a few times with keeping the backpack over just one shoulder. The shoulder strap was clearly uncomfortable on his old war wound, but there was no way his right shoulder could withstand the pressure of the other strap. He still carefully carried the paper cup, indicating that he had not yet sipped from it. He passed unit after unit, until Sherlock finally recognized where he was headed. The pathology lab.

With a timidity Sherlock did not recall ever witnessing before, John entered the lab. Molly Hooper was bent over a microscope, completely absorbed in her work. She was visibly startled when John approached her. The two looked at each other awkwardly for a moment, and then John thrust the paper cup forward to her. Molly accepted the offering with some trepidation. John lowered his head, and turned slightly away, completely obscuring Sherlock's view of his face.

Pounding the arm of his chair with his fist, Sherlock growled. The worst part about spying by CCTV was the lack of audio content.

 _"Mycroft, I'm shocked. I spend enough time in the lab at Bart's, I would have thought you would have microphones present as well as cameras. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"Ah, dear brother. Conduct a search, I think you will find what you are looking for. However, in this instance, the good doctor and Miss Hooper needed a moment. MH"_ _  
_  
 _"They needed a moment. How magnanimous of you. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"You're supposed to be on my side. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"Mycroft? SH"_ _  
_  
 _"Mr. Holmes wishes to inform you that you are being utterly ridiculous, and he can no longer justify expending the effort to respond. Anthea"_ _  
_

Shoving the phone into his pocket, Sherlock looked back at the screen. Molly was still holding the cup, clutching it tightly with both hands. She had tears in her eyes, though her countenance did not appear to be one of hurt or sorrow. She seemed almost relieved. John's face was still turned away, but his stance was not one of anger or malice. No, this was the posture of a man seeking repentance, attempting to make amends. A small smile crept onto Sherlock's face.

Upon his return nearly six months ago, Sherlock had assumed John would be overjoyed that he hadn't actually died. He had not counted on the anguish and pain that his departure had caused his friend. And he certainly did not expect John to be angry.

No, not angry. Outraged. Resentful. Bitter. Offended. Betrayed.

In the throes of his understandably passionate response to Sherlock's weak attempts at explaining himself (which John kept demanding he do), John had interrupted him long enough to punch him in the face. Twice. Sherlock neither faulted him nor held it against him. He just wanted to come back home, to London, to Baker Street, to his life, and to John. He would have let John beat him within an inch of his own life if it would have helped the doctor cope.

John's method of coping had proven to be far more devious than any physical assault could ever be.

He avoided Sherlock for a full week after. Even when they were both in the flat, John made certain they never occupied the same space. He actively ignored any attempt Sherlock made at speaking to him. Sherlock could see John's mind at work, weighing his options, making plans. He was in torment, and once again it was all because of Sherlock. And that knowledge caused the consulting detective no end of suffering.

Until one day John just simply wasn't angry any more.

It was disorienting and sudden. And true to John Watson's form, simple.

John came home from the clinic one day, not even sparing a glance for Sherlock huddled in his arm chair, overcome by the growing desperate need for his friend to just acknowledge his presence. He headed directly to the kitchen and started the kettle. After several minutes John returned to the sitting room and offered Sherlock what was, in his mind, the most lovely and appropriate peace offering imaginable. A cup of tea. John took his place in his arm chair, nodded ever so slightly at Sherlock, broke the silence with one syllable, "Right," picked up a dog-eared paperback and settled in for the evening. They didn't speak that night. They didn't need to. The companionable silence was more than enough.

When John came to realize Mycroft had been involved in Sherlock's faked suicide and two and a half year absence, his response had initially been much the same. Mycroft had let himself into the flat unannounced. John had rushed him and taken a swing. Somewhere during the three steps it took John to reach Mycroft from his seated position at the table, a horde of men in black suits had flooded into the residence, and pinned the enraged ex-military man to the floor before his right hook could make contact.

The subsequent tongue-lashing Mycroft received from the restrained Captain was vividly vulgar, offensive, and well deserved. John's rant was a masterful diatribe of obscenities and expletives woven poetically together with curses, not only in English, but a handful of other languages he had picked up during his time in Afghanistan. It was a thing of pure beauty, as far as Sherlock was concerned. And it lasted five whole minutes. Five minutes, eleven seconds, to be precise. Sherlock timed it. He still lamented the fact that he had not recorded it for posterity's sake.

John had ended the abuse with a pant and then a demand to be allowed to stand. A stunned Mycroft nodded, his face was stained crimson. No one besides Sherlock had ever attempted to put him in his place, verbally or otherwise, and here this invalided, emotionally distraught, former soldier had done just that. And succeeded.

At the first sense of being released, John forced himself up and away from Mycroft's men, stood to full military height, marched directly up to Mycroft, stared him in the eye until the taller man actually shrank away, slammed his right shoulder into the distressed dignitary's shoulder, causing his umbrella to clatter to the floor, and proceeded to stomp down the stairs and out the front door.

And then John Watson slashed all four tires of Mycroft's car.

No one could actually prove it at the time, since the entire security team, including the driver, had been upstairs in the flat. John never mentioned it. Mycroft later watched the tapes, promptly had them erased, and never reported the crime. Sherlock recognized the fact that the cuts had been clearly made with a pocket knife by a left handed man of average height in his late thirties. He had never been more proud of anyone. Ever.

It took two months for that relationship to return to something resembling normal. Sherlock observed that Mycroft and John maintained their mutual disdain for one another. Looking after him seemed to be the only thing they had in common. And quite frankly, he felt that was as it should be.

Then there was Molly.

It wasn't the fact that Molly had known Sherlock's secret that hurt John. Nor was it the fact that she had sat with him for hours on especially hard days after he had watched Sherlock jump, and they had mourned together. Or, he thought they had. No, what truly angered John about Molly's involvement was quite possibly, if you asked Sherlock, the single most trivial part of the whole matter. The death certificate.

John had made an oath to uphold certain standards when he became a doctor. As a Captain in the military, following the rules was engrained in him. And one thing John Watson simply could not tolerate was falsification of legal documents. Especially medical records.

It happened every day. He was well aware. John also resigned himself to the fact that Sherlock had used the tactic to corner a suspect on more than one occasion.

But Molly was different. Molly was sweet, and caring, and had integrity. Not to mention the fact that she was a medical professional.

She of all people should have understood.

Falsifying a death certificate was wrong. Illegal. Devious. It made her a liar and a fraud. And wasn't it funny, John had reasoned, that this whole mess happened because Moriarty had convinced the world Sherlock Holmes was a fraud. But that had been a lie. No, when he really thought about it, the only frauds John Watson could come up with were James Moriarty and Molly Hooper.

And he told her so.

Because he couldn't bring himself to hit her. He was no monster. And even though he was livid, propriety dictated he keep his foul mouth hidden from a lady.

But he could tell her the truth, as scathing as it was. So he did. He had turned his back to her sobbing, stormed from the lab, and had not spoken to her since.

Until today. May 4th. The mystery day.

That is the reason Sherlock Holmes found himself grinning stupidly at the hospital security footage in front of him. Molly was vital to his work, and John's avoidance of her had created several difficult situations, consuming valuable time. Finally, John had come around, as Sherlock knew he would (he had to, this was John Watson, and John Watson is compassionate, empathetic, and forgiving). He cared very little that his friends were reconciling, no, but he was overjoyed that he could return to his work as usual.

Maybe this day, whatever it was, wasn't so bad after all.

Sherlock watched Molly nod and smile slightly as John's shoulders slumped in relief. They stood awkwardly another moment, until John noticed the clock on the wall, 7:29 am. He embraced her, being careful of the cup in her hand, kissed her on the cheek, and dashed to the door, saying something over his shoulder. Molly giggled and raised her hand in a wave goodbye.

Taking out his mobile, Sherlock desperately wanted to text John something snarky about being forced to grovel for Molly's forgiveness, but he hesitated. There was something very pure about the few moments he had witnessed. Maybe Mycroft wasn't such a moron after all, perhaps they really had just needed a moment. He decided to let this one go.

Nah.

 _"You're lucky Molly is so patient. And that I am so reserved. SH"_ _  
_

The scene on the screen changed as John burst out of the lab and rushed to the nearest elevator. He selected the top floor, and tapped his foot impatiently, this time avoiding looking directly into the onboard camera. He was hiding something, and he assumed Sherlock would be watching.

Just as Sherlock picked up his mobile a text alert buzzed. "Mycroft," he sighed, more disappointed about that fact than he had ever been about anything else.

 _"Brother, what you are about to watch is highly personal. That I am showing you this without John's permission is inexcusable, and may cause irreparable damage to the already fragile relationship between he and I. I implore you, do not succumb to sentimentality. Or rage. MH"_ _  
_

Sherlock gestured once more at the camera on the bookshelf behind him, and turned his attention to the laptop. John had disembarked from the elevator, and with a glance around to make sure no one was watching, made his way to the stairwell. The screen went black briefly, and when the footage started back up Sherlock was alarmed that he was not seeing the stairwell. This was an external camera.

He couldn't quite place it...

The image shuddered a moment, as something below it moved, and the top of a door came into view. Then the top of a slightly greying sandy blonde head. And the top of the head materialized into John, who took a few steps out from the door, stopped, slid the backpack off his shoulder and clutched it in front of him, and looked around slowly.

Oh God.

No.

No no no no no.

May 4th.

Details that had been long deleted suddenly found their way back to him.

May 4th, 2012. The day John Watson watched him jump from the roof of St Bart's.

Three years ago today.

God. Why was John on the roof.

Sherlock held the laptop in both hands and pleaded with the man on the roof. "Turn around John, come back home. Please. Please. What are you doing?"

Helplessly he watched, transfixed by what he was seeing. John walked slowly to an area of the roof just at the edge of the screen. Sherlock willed him to not go any further. He didn't. Instead he paused once more, looked up at the sky thoughtfully, and to Sherlock's great astonishment, John spit on the roof below him. John was talking now, though no one was there with him; his countenance was calm, but there was fire in his eyes. He spit once more on the same spot, and with more purpose strode to the ledge of the roof. Running his hand along the ledge, John walked slowly, contemplating every step. With a sudden stop he sat his backpack down, and leaned to peer over the ledge, with his back to the camera.

Heart racing and head pounding, Sherlock fought a wave of nausea. Breathe. He couldn't breathe. He had to set the laptop on his knees as his hands had begun to shake too badly to support its weight. "John," he whispered as he watched the other man sit down on the ledge and bury his face in his hands.

"John, I'm back. I'm not dead! John, please... don't... don't do this..." Sherlock begged. Horror coursed through him as he watched John gingerly swing his legs over the ledge so that he was sitting with his back to the camera, his feet dangling over the street below. He was seated in the precise spot from which Sherlock had jumped.

John just sat, unmoving. Sherlock followed suit, his eyes attempting to bore into the mind of the man on the screen. So focused on John's back was he, that he was actually startled when the rooftop door opened once more, and a shock of salt and pepper hair came into view. Lestrade, carrying two disposable coffee cups stepped quickly to the same spot, almost at the edge of the screen, John had gone to. He paused only a moment, said something clearly angry, and spit twice in the same spot John had spit.

Sherlock paused the video. He had nearly forgotten he was watching a recording. His heart slowed down measurably. If John had done something foolish, someone would have called him. Right? He groaned. Or not. He ran his hand through his hair.

He wouldn't think about that now. Not yet.

He scanned the frozen image. Based on the angle of the camera, and the limited view of the skyline, Sherlock decided John and Lestrade had figured out the spot where Moriarty had shot himself, and this was their way of desecrating his memory. Sherlock hummed in approval. He might have to pay the spot a visit soon as well. Though he doubted John would let him anywhere near a roof anytime in the near future.

Wait. John.

Sherlock returned his gaze to John's back, and watched as Lestrade approached the ledge. He set the coffee down to John's left and clamped his hand down on John's left shoulder. They exchanged a few words, and Lestrade grinned as he carefully sat on the ledge and turned his back to the camera as well. The two sat in apparent silence for some time, until Lestrade picked up the cups and handed one to John, who laughed at something Lestrade said.

"What is this, a bloody tea party?" Sherlock shouted. He was still shaking, but the fear was slowly being replaced by anger.

On the screen John and Lestrade chatted casually. After a few moments they raised their cups and toasted something. John sat his cup down and dug something from his backpack. Sherlock couldn't quite make out what it was, until John handed the small package to Lestrade who expertly shook out some of the contents, struck a match, inhaled, and lit up a cigarette.

Make that two.

He then handed one to John, they each raised their cigarette in tribute, and then took deep drags. Sherlock couldn't tell if it was because John didn't actually smoke, (good Lord, what was happening right now?), or a combination of the deep breath with damaged ribs, but something threw John into a violent coughing fit. Which threw Lestrade into a violent laughing fit. That led to John snuffing out the cigarette, which he threw at Lestrade.

John then motioned to Lestrade, who obliged, lit two more, and handed John one. They sat in silence for a moment, Lestrade expertly puffing away, and lighting up a third, as John amatuerly tried to keep pace. Another coughing fit came over John, but this time he lost hold of the cigarette and it tumbled over the edge of the roof and down out of sight. Both men froze, and John leaned entirely too far over the edge of the building for Sherlock's liking, in order to peer down below. Lestrade shouted something. The two men stared at each other and burst out laughing. Lestrade offered another cigarette, but John waved him off.

More companionable silence, as Lestrade smoked away happily (hadn't he quit? Sherlock was sure of it) and John sipped from his cup. Lestrade appeared to ask John a question, to which John launched into a very animated answer. Lestrade laughed throughout the account, and when John pushed back the sleeve on his right arm to reveal a watch, Lestrade nearly collapsed backwards off the ledge in hysterics. He smacked John on the back then, and quickly shrank away when John visibly winced. Lestrade pointed back to the door with his cigarette, and John nodded in agreement but motioned Lestrade to wait a minute.

Digging through his backpack again, John pulled out an envelope and a legal pad. He unfolded the tattered paper from the envelope, and gingerly handed it to Lestrade. After a moment John turned to face Lestrade, swinging his left leg back so he had one foot planted firmly on the roof (Sherlock released a breath he hadn't realized he was still holding), and he was straddling the ledge. Lestrade followed suit, in order to face John. They were deep in conversation, and as they spoke, it appeared John was taking notes of the conversation. After a few minutes, John read over what he had written and handed the pad to Lestrade, who also read over it, and nodded. John handed him the pen, and Lestrade scribbled something on the page, and then John did the same. He then ripped the page from the pad, folded it carefully and placed it in the envelope.

The two men looked at each other seriously and John nodded to the other ratty page. Lestrade lit another cigarette, raised his hand again in tribute, and then lit the corner of the paper. It was so worn it burned up quickly, and they watched the resulting embers glide away on the breeze.

Then, to Sherlock's disgust, both men spit into their left hands, clasped hands as if settling a business deal, and shook heartily. John motioned in the direction of the camera and Lestrade grinned. They both turned to the camera and with much gusto, flipped it off. That resulted in much raucous laughter.

Sherlock was not impressed. "Children. I am surrounded by imbecilic children."

They were still laughing as Lestrade dug in his pocket and fished out his mobile. He answered it and suddenly stiffened, as he held a finger to his lips. John grinned, and tried to get Lestrade's attention. The D.I. tried to ignore John, but John was having none of it. Very precariously, John reached over and punched Lestrade in the shoulder.

Oh.

Lestrade had been giggling like a school girl when Sherlock had called him earlier. And then he had said "ow!" Sherlock seethed. Lestrade had been with John, and had withheld the information.

 _"Lestrade, you are going to pay dearly. You won't know when, nor how, but you will pay. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"Calm down. John is fine. GL"_ _  
_  
 _"Figure out the mystery? GL"_ _  
_  
 _"I hate you. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"You say that a lot, but you always come back. GL"_ _  
_  
 _"Imbicile. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"Apprehended the suspect yet? SH"_ _  
_  
 _"Not yet. Following a lead. Know anything about train yards? GL"_ _  
_  
 _"Of course I do. What do YOU know about train yards? SH"_ _  
_  
 _"I'll e-mail the info we have. GL"_ _  
_  
 _"John really is ok. Went down to be examined after we finished. I left him there with a doctor. GL"_ _  
_  
 _"He has yet to return. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"That was a while ago. I'll keep an eye out for him. GL"_ _  
_  
 _"Lestrade... thank you. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"*gasp* Did Sherlock Holmes just THANK me? GL"_ _  
_  
 _"I mean it. Thank you for making sure he went to the doctor. You know how he is. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"That I do. Stubborn fool. He's my friend though, one of the best I've had. GL"_ _  
_  
 _"You're welcome. And, I'm glad you're not dead. Really. GL"_ _  
_  
 _"Me too. SH"_

Sherlock dropped the phone into his pocket as he watched John and Lestrade make their way from the roof, down the stairwell, and through the hospital halls. They stopped in front of a suite of offices, and John turned to Lestrade. They shook hands briskly, and Lestrade strolled off towards the elevator. John entered the office, and as the door closed, Sherlock could make out the name on the sign, "Dr. Matthew MacGregor, Oncology."

"Oncology?" Sherlock whispered. John had a dislocated shoulder and a few bruised ribs. Why was he going into an oncology office?

He could no longer restrain himself. He dialed John's mobile number, and it came as no surprise when the line went directly to voice mail. "John, I demand to know what is going on. Right now. How dare you keep secrets from me. The roof of Bart's? And why an oncology office? And. Where. Are. You?" Sherlock tried not to think about the fact that he couldn't disconnect the call with enough force, it just served to make him even angrier.

He glanced at the video, and saw John sitting patiently in a waiting area. He let it play as he placed the laptop on the table and began pacing the sitting room. He took out his phone again and dialed Molly.

"Hello, lab," Molly chirped sweetly.

"No time. Yes, I know what day it is. I also know you and John made up. Have you seen him since then?" Sherlock demanded.

Molly sighed, "No Sherlock, I haven't. Greg just texted me you were looking for him. He was asking after him too. Is something wrong?"

"Is something wrong? He was injured during a brutal attack last night, he spent part of the morning traipsing around the rooftop of St Bart's, he won't respond to my communications, I believe he has been in contact with an estate lawyer, and I know for a fact he visited an oncology doctor earlier today. You tell me if anything is wrong!" Sherlock had worked himself into a full roar.

"Let me look something up. I hope I don't get fired for this," Molly was whispering, and Sherlock could hear her typing. "Ok, looks like he saw Dr. MacGregor. Oh. Ohhh. He is one of the oncology docs. Um, hm. He had some standard x-rays, but no other testing. Nothing to indicate..."

"One visit hardly eliminates an entire possibility," Sherlock interrupted. "Is he still there?"

"No, checked out a while ago it appears. Ok, I can't look at anything else. Privacy laws, you know. Are you okay, Sher..."

He didn't wait for her to finish. Sherlock had hung up his phone and was drawn back to the video on the screen. Apparently the footage ended with John sitting in the waiting room, and the video restarted on a loop.

 _"Mycroft, where's the footage of John after he leaves the hospital? SH"_ _  
_  
 _"Construction crew damaged a line, took out CCTV for a twelve block radius. We lost sight of him immediately after he entered a cab. System still down. We're looking. MH"_ _  
_  
 _"Notify me immediately. SH"_ __

  
Sherlock returned to the video. Something had caught his eye now that he was seeing it in standard speed. He slowed it down to see more details.

He watched as John walked in the direction of the tube. Suddenly John stopped, and he ever so slightly cocked his head to the left. Sherlock paused the video and squinted. He couldn't tell what John was looking at without being able to see his eyes. He pressed play. John ducked past the two girls sitting at one of the outdoor tables, and in to Speedy's. The two girls were whispering, and the brunette pointed towards their flat, and motioned into the diner.

Ah. He hadn't been flirting. They had recognized John. At that moment John stepped cautiously from the diner, Molly's cup in hand, and glanced up and down the street. He noticed the two girls watching him, and strode up to them, even as he glanced back in the opposite direction. He spoke with them a few moments, and allowed them to take a picture with him. He then reached for the brunette's phone, and pretended to admire the photo, but Sherlock could tell he was angling the screen so he could see behind him.

He said something obviously charming to the girls, as they both giggled; he waved quickly and stepped away. Facing the street so he could watch to his left with his peripheral vision, he kept his right hand down to his side. Sherlock realized John was tapping only his index finger on his pant leg.

Old Morse code.

Sherlock dove into the chair at the table, backed the video up, tore a page from John's case notebook, and dug around frantically until he found a nub of a worn out pencil. It would have to do.

He played the video back as slowly as he could. Once. Twice. Five times. He got the same message every time. He tugged at his hair with both hands.

"Vatican Cameos."

John abruptly raised his right arm to hail a cab, and when he turned to look into the camera he ever so slightly indicated back over his right shoulder with his eyes and a nod of his head, and then scrambled into the cab. Sherlock paused the video once more and strained to see what John was trying to show him. The quality of the video was horrendous.

It took only a moment to figure out what had spooked John. Sherlock shuddered and put his hand to his neck. There, attempting to mix in with other pedestrians, but failing on a spectacular level, was the suspect from last night. The man who had attacked Sherlock and then gotten away when John had thwarted his cohort. He had found them. Sherlock pressed play once more. The giant man watched John's cab pull away, shoved people out his way, and ran to the curb with his phone to his ear. The footage switched to views of John's cab.

"NO!" Sherlock slammed the laptop closed, and pounded the table with both fists.

 _"Mycroft, I need all of the CCTV video from Baker Street this morning. From the time John got into his cab. SH"_ _  
_  
 _"Whatever for? MH"_ _  
_  
 _"John is in very real danger. SH"_


	4. Integral

"Let's review, shall we?"

To the uninitiated, the tone of voice with which Sherlock Holmes made this proposal would have chilled a person to the very core, leaving even the bravest of men paralyzed with fear. To those who knew him, no further evidence need be supplied to substantiate the claims of "high functioning sociopath," also resulting in chilled cores, paralyzing fear, and so on. Sherlock, however, felt he was conducting himself in a manner most appropriate for the situation at hand.

Especially since the one to whom the statement was made was under the impression that he was not in the presence of the world's only consulting detective, but a radiantly beautiful, albeit alarmingly tall, angel who exuded light and all manner of swirling colors, the likes of which no man had ever seen. Everything the angel touched, and every place his foot fell, rainbows of unnamed colors spread out like running water. His voice was deep and rumbling like thunder, but not the frightening kind, the mid-summer afternoon kind that is delightful and refreshing. And when the angel spoke, oh wonder of wonders, he could see his words. SEE them! He wanted nothing more than for the angel to keep talking.

"Ok, angel," the man giggled. His words tasted funny. And the angel said "we," which was hilarious. "We. We we we we we. That's a good word, angel. It tastes like... blueberries. Do you have any blueberries?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. "Please try to focus." The other man continued to giggle, but had stopped babbling about blueberries and rainbows. Sherlock took that as an indication to continue.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes..."

The man giggled and began chanting, "sher-luck-olmes-sher-luck-olmes-sher-luck-olmes-sher... Odd name for an angel ain't it?" This, too, was hilarious.

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock continued. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, and you are Duncan Ross..."

"Oi!" Cried the other man. "You can't say that name... It's a... a secret. Besides, Duncan. Pshhh... A stupid name. I hate it. It tastes like... peas." Mr. Ross made a disgusted face.

"Why is that name a secret?" Sherlock played along. Obviously he knew why, but any confession he could get from the man would help his case.

"Shhhh..." Duncan Ross shushed Sherlock. "So they don't know what I done."

This was taking too long. Sherlock needed to hurry things along. "What is it that you've done, Duncan?"

"No!" the other man roared, his saccharine temperament instantly falling away in a fit of sudden rage. This Sherlock was familiar with, rage he could work with. "My name's not Duncan anymore!"

"Then what?" Sherlock replied coolly.

"John," the other man snapped. "Name's John Clay. Only John Clay." Of course, Sherlock had already known the man's alias, but there was something threatening in the way he spewed the name John that made the detective's stomach clench. There was no possible scenario in which Sherlock could possibly fathom calling this criminal by the name that represented all that was right in his life.

"John's a good name. A man's name. Not Duncan... that's a pansy name. I'm no pansy." And with that, the rage ebbed away, and a wave of sorrow overtook the man. "You're no angel," Not-Duncan blubbered. "Angels make people happy, not sad. You're a devil!"

"Hmm, been called worse. That's enough from you then." After a moment of digging in his coat pocket, Sherlock found a rather worse for wear handkerchief. He shook it out once, shrugged, and wadded the whole thing into the now weeping man's mouth as a gag and covered it with a piece of duct tape. "I'll take the narrative from here."

"You are Duncan Ross," Sherlock began, eliciting a feral growl from the other man. "My apologies. You are the criminal formerly known as Duncan Ross, and you're a Jack of all trades, so to speak. Using your alias, John Clay," here it was Sherlock's turn to growl, "you have built quite the impressive resume, making powerful friends along the way. I must admit, even I was shocked to learn of some of your connections, and the highly influential individuals who have employed your services. You run your crime network like a business, and as such, your business plan is impressive. You keep only yourself and your stepson, who you hope to one day pass the family business to, on staff, and contract out your jobs to temporary talent. A rotating crew allows for no two people knowing all of the details of any given job at any given time. It's brilliant, really," Sherlock nodded with appreciation.

"You dabble in the theft of very high end cars, art forgery, black market antiquities, and trading exotic weaponry. Very recently you've expanded into the cyber realm, finding great success in credit card, corporate, and insurance fraud. But perhaps your most lucrative endeavor is the manufacturing of designer drugs for wholesale. You have set yourself up as a veritable one stop shopping experience for your high profile customers. How am I doing so far?"

The crime boss grunted in response.

"Quite. Now, for someone who offers such impressive services as yourself, it must have been quite inconvenient, not to mention embarrassing, to have to conduct business from a place like this," Sherlock looked in disdain at the cramped space inside the freight container. "While I'm sure hiding in plain sight in the train yard where your stepson... Vincent Spaulding is it?"

At the mention of his stepson, Mr. Ross-turned-Clay began grunting in an effort to communicate.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock shook his head. "No, I can't understand what you're saying. Oh, just a moment." Savoring the moment, Sherlock ripped the duct tape away, "Quick is better, wouldn't you agree?" The other man cried out in pain, dislodging the handkerchief.

"I said we call him Archie, you sadistic..." his words were muffled as Sherlock reinserted the handkerchief and applied fresh duct tape.

"I sincerely hope surrendering your own son's alias was worth all of that," Sherlock sneered. The other man hung his head and groaned.

"As I was saying, I'm sure a train yard where your stepson holds a day job offers some advantage, especially in the shipping and receiving of goods. But we both know uninsulated freight containers are no place to store the types of items you deal with. The extreme temperature fluctuation alone could destroy entire shipments of artwork. And the conditions don't exactly lend themselves to the safe cooking or cutting of whatever drug it is you're manufacturing at the time. A climate controlled storage unit, or cheap flat would have served your purpose. But you needed something with less foot traffic. And that is how you came to be the owner/operator of a run down, hole in the wall pub." Sherlock patted the other man on the shoulder. "Not to worry, we're almost through with this part."

"I've already spoken with an associate of yours, a Mr. William Morris, or as he is known in the banking world, Mr. William M. Merryweather, Bank Manager of the City and Suburban Bank located conveniently near your own little establishment. You had used William before on jobs, taking advantage of his banking knowledge. In an effort to stay in your good graces, when you mentioned your storage dilemma, William had just the solution for you. The previous owners of the pub had defaulted on their loans, and City and Suburban Bank had seized the property. 'Mr. Merryweather' accompanied the bank appraiser on an inspection of the pub, and that is when he discovered the access to the tunnels. A quick search of the city planning maps revealed the tunnels had been long abandoned and spread out for miles. As an added bonus, they run directly under the bank."

"Under your legal name, Duncan Ross, you purchased the pub for a ridiculously small amount, and began modifying the tunnels to suit your purposes. While you were still in the remodeling process, young Archie took it upon himself to expend quite a large sum of your organization's funding into an ill-advised new venture. How did that family dinner go? When he revealed to you he wanted to try his hand at counterfeiting money? He failed spectacularly, didn't he? The equipment he bought, for an exorbitant amount, was shoddy. And the printing plates he obtained were poor at best. He was printing play money, all the while you were hemorrhaging real money in an effort to clean up his mess, keep a dive of a pub open, and finish modifying your tunnels. That was when William Morris came to your rescue once again. So far, so good?"

There was dejected grunt from the other man. He dared not make any other noises, in fear of having his gag ripped away once more.

"Now this part, this part is my favorite. Really, the solution to your problem was so simple. The City and Suburban bank, as a member of the Bank of England, had been rounding up old and damaged currency from all of its branches, and storing them in the vault of their most trusted manager, 'Mr. William M. Merryweather.' At the end of this week those old bills will be traded out for new, transported by armored vehicle to an undisclosed location, and incinerated. We're talking no small amount either. Multiple millions. William's proposal to you was that Archie print up enough of his counterfeit currency to make an equal exchange. He would help you gain access to the vault through the tunnels, and you could trade the fake stuff for cold hard cash. Of course, all of the bills had been documented, so you'd have to be extremely careful how you dispersed them, but 'Mr. Merryweather' of the City and Suburban Bank was more than happy to help you with that problem as well. He had only two requests in return. He wanted to be a vested partner in your organization, alongside yourself and Archie, and he was in need of a substantial supply of very pure, very high grade cocaine."

"You were happy to oblige, it appears," Sherlock gestured to the tables laden with bundles of the drug. "As it turns out, Mr. Morris is loyal to no one but himself, and was more than willing to tell me about your plans for the tunnels. As a matter of fact, he is down at Scotland Yard as we speak, reciting all of this to detectives from every department imaginable, from the Fraud Squad, to Narcotics, and everyone in between. They're all very interested in what he has to say about you, Duncan."

The crime boss began to squirm, literally, and despite the gag, Sherlock could tell he was being vehemently cursed.

"Do calm down, Mr. Ross. None of that is why I am here. The only reason I am here has to do with what happened in your pub last night. Yes, initially my associate and I were in the tunnels because I had heard talk that there was to be an attempted bank robbery. At the time we were not aware of your connection, we were simply laying the groundwork for the case. That is when we happened upon the trap door in your storage closet. As you witnessed firsthand, young Archie did a fine job of manhandling me. And your hired thug, Mr. Jabez Wilson, did quite a number on my associate, Doctor John Watson. Now, you and I were both there, and despite Mr. Wilson's size advantage, you'll agree, my friend, the former military man, was the definite winner of that match."

"Mr. Wilson has also proven to be quite cooperative, despite being unable to speak at the current time, especially once we pieced together the fact that you had misrepresented his necessity to your organization. When he realized that his purpose was to guard the tunnel entrance until such time as the bank heist would be completed, and then he was to be disposed of, well, he was really rather forthcoming. He shared quite a bit of information about little side projects young Archie has taken on in exchange for favors for your organization. All quite revealing in regards to Archie's character, and his tendency towards violence."

At this point, Sherlock paused for dramatic effect. In the far distance the men could hear the sound of police sirens. "Hm, this really has taken longer than I anticipated. I'm going to have to rush this last part," Sherlock explained apologetically. He pulled John's service weapon from his pocket. He would have to have a serious discussion with the doctor about carrying the weapon with him any time he left the flat, though it was going to serve his purpose very well in this instance. He would add that to the growing list of grievances for the day. Sherlock made a show of pulling the clip from the gun, checking it closely, and reinserting it. He waited a beat, and flicked off the safety. He pressed the barrel to the back of Duncan's head; the other man stiffened and began whimpering.

"And now, for the real reason we find ourselves in this ridiculous situation. I observed your stepson, Archie as you call him, a man wanted for several counts of assault, known and feared for his rage, stalking my friend, Doctor John Watson (you'll pardon me if I refuse to call you John, but you are in no way deserving of such an honorable designation) as he was on his way to have his wounds, administered by your hired thug, examined this morning. That was just after 7:00 am. I have not been able to locate or make contact with Dr. Watson since that time. While there may be any number of reasons we have not been able to connect today, the most glaringly obvious is that a violent man, employed by a career criminal, has been tracking him all day."

As Sherlock spoke, Duncan slowly began shaking his head as to say "no," and had begun to frantically try to speak through his gag.

"Shut. Up." Sherlock pressed the gun with more force to Duncan's head. "I have searched your pub, the tunnels, your home, and Archie's flat. Those sirens? Officers are now searching this entire train yard. None of us will rest until we find John Watson. So I will ask you this once. WHERE. IS. HE?"

Duncan was sobbing now, pleading through his gag. Sherlock ripped the tape away to allow him to speak.

"Idontknowidontknowidontknow. I haven't seen Archie since he left the pub last night before your police friends arrived. He hasn't returned my calls, and he didn't..."

At this Sherlock roared in anger. "LIES! Tell me where he is! He's your son for God's sake!"

"I DON'T KNOW!" Duncan wailed. Glancing to the entrance of the freight container, knowing Lestrade wouldn't be long in arriving now, Sherlock scooped up a handful of white powder in his gloved hand and pressed it against Duncan's mouth and nose. The crime boss froze, eyes wide, as he held his breath.

"You have to breathe sometime!" screamed Sherlock. "It's evident you aren't a user, by the trip you experienced with the last dose. This dose? This is enough to drop you. I certainly hope, for your sake, it's as pure as Mr. Morris hoped it would be. I would hate to see what an amount this large from a dirty batch could do to you. Is your heart strong? Because you can basically count on having a heart attack." Sherlock kept his hand firmly in place. Duncan was clearly struggling to hold his breath as tears streamed down his cheeks and he pleaded with Sherlock with his eyes. "I recommend you inhale through your nose," was the only response.

Unable to hold out any longer, Duncan inhaled deeply through his nose, gasping and choking on the white powder obstructing his airway. Sherlock pulled his hand away and brushed it against his pant leg. What a waste.

"Sherlock? You in there?" A shout came from outside the container.

"I'm here, Lestrade. You and your team need to make sure you have masks and gloves on before you come in here."

The sight that greeted Lestrade, Donovan, and the others as they made their way into the freight container was surreal, nearly beyond comprehension. A dozen or so tables lined the walls of the freight container. Each table was buried under stacks and stacks of packaged white powder. In the center of the container, in the middle of clear signs of struggle, lay a very dazed Duncan Ross, hands and feet bound with duct tape. Sherlock, having quickly stowed John's gun in the interior pocket of his suit jacket, sat square in the middle of Duncan's back with his knees bent up to his chest, a position he had mostly maintained since the moment he had knocked Duncan off his feet, in an effort to pin the much larger man in place. Both men were coated head to toe in white powder.

"Judas priest, Sherlock. What happened in here?" Lestrade made no effort to cover the shock in his tone. "Is that... is that cocaine? God Sherlock, you didn't..."

"No, of course not, Lestrade. Give me some credit will you. Not that I wasn't tempted. But now is not the time."

Lestrade's shoulders slumped in relief.

"I cannot say the same for Mr. Ross here. Being face down in the stuff, he's ingested quite a large amount. I worry for his safety. That much could trigger an overdose or a cardiac event," Sherlock blinked innocently.

"You... You're worried for his..." Lestrade shook his head. "Nope. Never mind. Here, let me help you up."

"WAIT!" Donovan shouted, as she began snapping pictures.

Sherlock groaned. "What ARE you doing?"

"For evidence, freak. Calm down," Donovan snarled as she snapped another. "Except that one. That's going to be my Christmas card."

"Lestrade, get her away from me, or I swear..."

"Knock it off you two!" Both Donovan and Sherlock jumped when Lestrade barked the command. "Sally, get some medics in here for Mr. Ross. I'm going to get Sherlock out of here." Lestrade helped Sherlock stand on wobbly legs, took him by the elbow, and nearly dragged him from the container, swearing under his breath the entire time.

Out in the daylight Lestrade looked Sherlock up and down. He had wrapped his scarf around his face several times, to serve as a mask, had fastened his greatcoat tightly around himself, and was wearing black leather gloves. "We're going to need all that," Lestrade waved his hand up and down indicating Sherlock's getup, "for evidence. We'll clean it all and get back to you in a few days." Sherlock sighed and began to slowly remove his beloved Belstaff.

"Did you really intend to end up coated in cocaine today? Is that why you wore your scarf and gloves? Because it's not exactly cold out, quite the opposite, actually."

Carefully placing his coat in the evidence bag Lestrade held open, and unwinding the scarf, Sherlock shook his head no. "I always wear the scarf. Pay attention, Lestrade. And I keep the gloves with me for crime scenes. Being coated in cocaine was purely incidental. He engaged in hand to hand combat. Being larger in stature, he had the advantage. I ducked under one of the tables, wrapped myself up just in case, and jumped back up swinging a brick of cocaine at his face. I was hoping the weight of the package would help me deliver a more solid blow to his nasal cavity (a trick I learned from John, by the way). I wasn't really anticipating the package exploding in my hand. Though it did the trick, and stunned him long enough for me to secure his hands and feet."

Sherlock had place his scarf, gloves and shoes into the evidence bag, attempted to shake the powder from his hair (unsuccessfully) and had accepted a wet nap to wipe his face. "Oh..." He and Lestrade both looked down. From his knees down, Sherlock's trousers were also coated in white.

"You know what, it's fine. I'll take you back to Baker Street now, and you can give them to me there. It's fine. It'll be fine," Lestrade was rambling.

"It's Monday, correct?" Sherlock asked as he began unfastening his belt.

"Yes," Lestrade yelped. "What are you doing? I said it's fine."

"Nonsense. Your forensics team is in need of my trousers, so have them they shall. You confirm it's Monday. That means it's boxers day. There," Sherlock stepped out of his trousers, making certain to remove his wallet, keys and mobile from the pockets, revealing purple boxers with little white polka dots. He stood there in his black socks, boxers, suit jacket and shirt, holding his trouser out in offering to Lestrade, with a devious sort of hateful grin on his face. "I warned you that you would pay."

Lestrade's face flushed crimson. "Oh my God, Sherlock. Get in the car. Get in the car now. Now." Every officer in the area had stopped what they were doing and stood gawking. There was a moment when no one moved. Then simultaneously Donovan squealed and snapped a dozen photographs, Anderson whistled, and D.I. Jones from Narcotics and D.I. Dimmock from the Fraud Squad led the charge in the wolf howling.

Pandemonium reigned for two full minutes as Lestrade stood stark still, petrified and unblinking, and Sherlock remained steadfast, grinning at his discomfort.

It wasn't until the medics charged from the freight container with Mr. Ross on a gurney, shouting about cardiac arrest, did everyone snap out of it and turn back to what they were doing.

"Car. Now." Lestrade hissed as he snatch Sherlock's trousers from him and stomped away. Sherlock strutted along behind him, demonstrating absolutely no shame.

It wasn't until he was in the car did Sherlock let his confident mask slip off, and he ran his hand over his face. Still slightly in shock, Lestrade started the car and headed to Baker Street. "No word from him?"

"Nothing. It's late afternoon now. I could almost understand a few hours of silence. But not this long. Something is wrong, Lestrade. Just, turn back. I want to help search the train yard. He's got to be there. It makes the most sense. Turn around."

"Sherlock, take a breath. I still think John is fine. Who knows, he could be back at home now. You've been out for a few hours. Maybe he got home, and decided to have a nap? You know, pain meds and all? And besides, we've got every officer we can spare, including our K-9 units, out there. If there's even a hint of John Watson at that train yard, they'll find it." He looked sideways at the now visibly distraught Sherlock who was staring down at his mobile, willing it to ring.

"What you need is a hot shower and some trousers. I'll drop you at home, and I won't even come up to take your full statement. I'll get back out there, and check every place I can possibly think of. If he isn't home by the time you're showered, you call me, I'll come get you, and we'll go back out together. Both of us together, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, and mumbled, "Together. Yes, good."

Lestrade parked the car in front of 221b. "You uh, you want a blanket or something? To cover up with?"

"No, I'm fine. It's nothing anyone in this neighborhood hasn't seen before," Sherlock shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirked up slightly. He slid out of the car and slammed the door.

Lestrade rolled the window down to call after him, "John's fine. Text me if he's up there, okay?" Just then his phone rang. "Lestrade. What? Where?" Sherlock, wide eyed, leaned down to listen in the window. The police radio started to crackle to life, and Lestrade quickly shut it completely off. "Right, okay. I'm on my way. Thanks Sally," he hesitated. "Uh huh. Yeah."

"What? What is it? Did they find him?" Sherlock moved to open the car door.

"It's just an assault in progress. I have to go Sherlock, I'm closest to the scene. Go upstairs, text what you find. When I'm done with this, I'll come right back. I promise." Lestrade avoided eye contact as he started the car.

"Lestrade?"

"I have to go!" Lestrade shouted as he turned on the lights and sirens and sped off.

Sherlock very nearly broke the door off its hinges trying to get in the front of the building. He sprinted up the stairs to the flat, conducted a hurried search, and found the place empty. He sat down hard in his chair.

 _"Lestrade he's not here. Come get me now. I can help. SH"_

Steepling his fingers under his chin he waited, unmoving, for a response he didn't expect any time soon.


	5. Indispensable

"Sherlock…"

"The only reason I have not disconnected this call already is that I do not, at the moment, have the means to hang up on you acceptably. It would be the greatest of injustices if I failed to make known to you that this call will be terminated with extreme prejudice."

"Sher…"

With all the fierceness allowed by swiping a single finger over the glass face of a smart phone, Sherlock Holmes disconnected the call. Another call rang in instantly. Lestrade. Again. Sherlock hit ignore. It really would be satisfying to smash the mobile into a million pieces.

" _It's important, Sherlock. GL"_

" _It's been three hours, Graham. SH"_

" _I deserved that. It's about the case. GL"_

" _Wait… You do know my name isn't Graham, right? GL"_

" _Irrelevant. SH"_

" _Right. We have your suspect in custody. GL"_

" _Vincent Spaulding, answers to Archie? SH"_

" _Tall, mean, and ugly? That's the one. GL"_

" _Where's John? SH"_

Several frustrating moments passed. Sherlock had been pacing about the sitting room furiously during the exchange, but he found himself frozen in place, holding his breath as the seconds ticked by.

" _Greg. SH"_

" _Answer your phone. GL"_

Even with the warning, Sherlock jumped when his phone rang.

"Where is he?" Sherlock's baritone rumbled threateningly.

"St. Bart's right now, but… How did you..."

Sherlock flung the flat door open, "Obvious. I will be there momentarily. Text me details. Everyone is going to pay for this. You. Mycroft. Molly. Everyone…"

"SHERLOCK!" Lestrade shouted over the tantrum, bringing Sherlock to a sudden halt halfway down the steps. "I've got him. I'm bringing him to Baker Street personally. He's being released as we speak."

"Put him on."

"Uh, no. That's not happening."

"Lestrade, I demand to talk to John right now!" Sherlock snarled.

"First off, you sound rabid, and no one, least of all John, needs to deal with that. Secondly, he's a little worse for wear, and kind of medicated right now. It'll be better to talk when I get him home." Lestrade's calm tone did little to put Sherlock at ease.

Actually, it well and truly set him off.

"Detective Inspector, you hand that phone to John this instant, or so help me…" Sherlock inhaled deeply, composed his thoughts, and launched into a curse laden diatribe, the likes of which would have made even John Watson blush.

Or very, very proud.

Probably proud.

Lestrade held his peace for the duration, and waited a beat as Sherlock caught his breath. "Feel better?"

"No," snapped the still panting Sherlock.

Lestrade chuckled. "John makes it look easy, doesn't he? The swearing I mean. He's second to none, a real champ."

"Lestrade? Do shut up," Sherlock had calmed his breathing, and taken on a softer tone. "Please, Greg? I just want to check that he's okay. Please." The consulting detective knew he sounded pathetic. It was a tactic he used on John often, with mixed results. 62% of the time Sherlock could get what he wanted. Any strategy with a success rate higher than 55% remained in the arsenal until it proved ineffective.

Lestrade was having none of it. "That nonsense might work with John, but not with me."

Sherlock exhaled in noisy exasperation.

"Look, I'm pulling the car around now. Once he comes out, we'll be on our way. Maybe see if Mrs. Hudson will make some tea, or…"

"She's cross with me. "

"Hm, yeah. That was bound to happen. Okay, well, I see him coming out now, so we'll be there soon."

"Fine," Sherlock huffed and threw himself down onto the couch.

"And Sherlock?" Lestrade hesitated.

"What."

"Well, just… You might want to actually put some trousers on." The D.I. tried, unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh.

"How... I... How did you..."

"God, Sherlock. Nothing ever changes. Were you really going to try to catch a cab to Bart's in your boxers and suit coat?"

There was a moment of awkward silence.

"You're going to hang up on me now, aren't you?" Lestrade laughed outright this time.

"Extreme. Prejudice." Sherlock's finger hovered over the screen. "Greg? Please hurry."

"Got it."

Sherlock disconnected the call and settled deep into the couch to think. Yes, definitely to think. Absolutely not to pout. Or brood. And especially not fret.

There seemed to be an inordinate amount of lint clinging to the blanket tucked over the back of the couch.

Bored.

The case, think about the case. There must be other cases connected to Duncan (not John Clay, never John) Ross.

Hmm. How long had that thread been loose on this pillow?

BORED.

Observation: Lestrade had been acutely humiliated in the absence of Sherlock's trousers. Information marked as imperative, saved to permanent storage.

John would find that information necessary as well.

What insipid, uninspired name would John label this blog entry? The probability that John's title would include the either the word cocaine, billiard, or tunnel was 82%. Likely something completely overlooking the actual scope of the far reaching crime ring, attempting something more sensational (translation: dull).

Speaking of dull...

Sherlock checked the time. Only seven minutes? It would be at least another 15 before John would arrive. And then only if traffic was moving.

 _"Lestrade, lights and sirens. SH"_

Of course the D.I. wouldn't indulge. Nor would he respond. Especially after Sherlock's scandalous behavior at the train yard earlier. Sherlock smiled despite himself.

The flat was too quiet.

Lifting both legs and he let them drop, just to hear the thud against the couch cushions. And again.

 _"Mycroft, send me the CCTV footage of John during an assault this afternoon. I know you saw it. SH"_

 _"Network was still down at that time. MH"_

 _"Fortunately for you, everyone with a mobile fancies themselves an independent filmmaker. MH"_

 _"What does that mean? SH"_

 _"YouTube, dear brother. It appears your Doctor Watson is quite the internet sensation. MH"_

An incoming email alert pinged on the laptop.

 _"That's just the earliest one posted. There are dozens. Some are quite inventive. MH"_

Sherlock dove over the coffee table to snatch up the laptop. With a less than graceful spin he dropped into his chair and clicked the link. What he witnessed was both horrifying and magnificent.

Video after video depicted the imposing Vincent Spaulding, Archie, crazed with rage, terrorizing kiosks and shoppers in a shopping center, in an attempted effort to draw someone out of an electronics store. In each and every video, the smaller (by nearly half) form of John Watson ( _"Up against Spaulding? Not an ideal time to finally be wearing the sling, John. SH"_ ) would eventually appear. In some recordings John could clearly be heard attempting to talk Archie down.

And in every single video Archie would roar and lunge at John.

Even with his injuries, John's stance was impeccable, and his strategy sound. Unfortunately Archie cared little for either stance or strategy, opting for brute force. The dirtier the fight, the better. He seemed alarmingly fond of pulling people, especially children, from the growing crowd and tossing them into the fray in order to trip up conscientious John, who made every effort to keep Archie away from the innocent bystanders.

And Archie appeared to enjoy using props. He ripped a support pole off a nearby kiosk. A skateboard, cricket bat, metal trash receptacle, and a potted plant all came into play. At one point Archie used John's sling, still attached to John's body, to propel him into a concrete pillar.

Admirably John held his own, though it was evident he was not going to fare well by the end of this scrape. Sometime between the trash bin and the potted plant John produced a cord of some sort, and had managed to get it around Archie's neck. Sherlock had to admit, he appreciated the poetic justice of his attacker suffering the same fate he had. That is until the larger man, panicked by the lack of oxygen, bucked back and slammed John into the wall, stunning him enough to knock the cord from his one handed grasp.

Sherlock lost count of the videos he watched. He was enraged by the dirty tactics Archie employed, and the fact that they were all aimed at John only served to add fuel to the fire. In contrast, he found himself overwhelmingly proud of his friend, and the military precision with which he conducted himself, despite being injured, demonstrating a level of focus and brilliant anticipation Sherlock seldom had opportunity to witness.

Not that John was ever anything other than focused and brilliant (though he often focused on the wrong thing, and his brilliance was occasionally accidental). Truth be told, Sherlock was usually too wrapped up in his own brand of brilliance and focus to notice anyone else, especially ever present, consistent, dependable John.

Incredulous, Sherlock grew increasingly agitated as he watched the videos. While a large enough crowd had gathered around the two men, and though it was clear Archie was the aggressor and John the victim, not a single person moved to his aid. It wasn't until he happened upon a video, clearly recorded on a device designed for video recording rather than just a mobile, that Sherlock understood why. The recording device had an excellent microphone, and the sound was crystal clear.

As plain as if he had been sitting in the room, Sherlock could hear John's strained voice pleading with people to stay back, to call for police, to get away from here. The videographer panned the crowd a few times, and Sherlock was relieved to see several people making phone calls, and there were more than a few men in the crowd who could be seen removing their coats, rolling their sleeves up, edging their way forward. Still, John insisted. And so the men stayed back, imposing themselves between the brawl and the spectators. Sherlock could read in their faces the desire for the brute of a man to come near them just once.

The sensitive microphone of the recording device served its purpose well, in that it picked up the sound of every nauseating impact Archie landed on John. It picked up in great detail the angry cries as the thug advanced on the flagging doctor, and the cheers of encouragement any time John made headway against his adversary. There was murmuring and whispering as a few came to the realization, "OH! Isn't that the doctor who goes about with that detective?" "Doctor Watson, isn't it?" "God, he's got a foul mouth, doesn't he. He always seems so proper." "Give it to 'em doc!" "Is this for a case? Is Holmes here?"

Sherlock wished he had been there. He'd had quite enough of watching John Watson's life through the eye of a camera lens for one day, thank you very much. This was completely unacceptable.

Also in great detail, this particular video chronicled the unexpected, and if Sherlock were to be honest with himself, quite thrilling, conclusion to the fight. At some point, as John recovered himself from the potted plant being hurled at him, Archie had produced a taser (Sherlock rewound the video several times, and never came to a satisfying conclusion as to where he had pulled it from). It didn't appear to be of an extremely damaging voltage, but when John lunged at Archie, realizing too late the man had a weapon, he was stunned off his feet and fell to the ground.

The angry crowd grew silent as Archie stood over the heap of a man and laughed a villainous laugh. He reared back and kicked John once, and then a second time. As his foot made contact the second time, Sherlock could hear the sound of growling from somewhere behind the individual with the camera and then someone yelled a single word. German perhaps? It mattered very little, as suddenly a German shepherd wearing a vest identifying it as a service dog tore through the crowd and attacked Archie as he prepared to kick John a third time.

The dog latched on to his target's forearm, and refused to let go as Archie screamed in agony. The cheers of the crowd were raucous, and only increased as John began to stir. The man being mauled by the dog was obviously the central focus of the video at this point, but Sherlock kept his eyes on John. The doctor was clearly in excruciating pain, yet his eyes followed Archie's every movement, and John shifted, almost imperceptibly, into a position that would allow him to defend himself once more if need be. His left hand tucked into his sling and stayed there as he watched Archie carefully.

John's vigilance proved necessary when Archie, having had enough of the dog attack, grabbed the dog by the scruff, and with a feral roar, swung the dog into a nearby wall. With a whimper the dog released its hold and slid to the floor.

 _"Mycroft, the dog. SH"_

 _"We've already contacted the owner, former soldier, PTSD. He recognized John from one of his tours in Afghanistan. We're taking care of everything. MH"_

 _"Thank you. SH"_

 _"I'd like to meet him. SH"_

 _"That can be arranged. MH"_

Archie turned and charged toward John, who kept himself low, appearing defenseless until the very last moment. As the brute landed a foot next John, in preparation of landing another kick, John wrenched with his whole body weight, and landed a blow on Archie's left thigh. The larger man screamed in agony and dropped to his knees immediately. John scrambled to his feet, and stood before Archie, cutting quite the menacing appearance.

"Lay down, now!" John barked. Archie sneered and moved to dive after John.

"You will die in less than three minutes unless you do exactly as I tell you." John had assumed his Captain voice, and something in his tone convinced Archie to obey.

"Wha... what did you do to me?" The hulk of a man was suddenly reduced to whimpering and tears.

Glancing around, John noticed the camera, and motioned for the operator to come closer. "Make sure you get all of this, yeah?" The videographer nodded. "Good, right. Anyone a doctor or a nurse?" John shouted to the crowd. One of the men who had stepped forward earlier rushed over to John.

"I'm a medic."

"Fine." Glancing around once more, John looked down, yanked off his tie, and thrust it at the other man. "Use this as a tourniquet, and tie off that bleed," here John whispered something imperceptible to the medic, who nodded and went to work. "Someone run over to that linens shop, ask for towels and a few pillows. Tell them I'll be over to reimburse them shortly." It was only a matter of moments before the requested items were rushed to the scene.

"Put one pillow under his head, and here, elevate his legs." John inspected the job the medic had done with the makeshift tourniquet. "Good, very good. Leave the pen in there, but keep pressure on the wound with these towels. Did someone call for emergency services?" A chorus of yeses rang from the crowd, who had refused to dissipate, despite the actual fight having ended.

John motioned for the camera to come closer, as he knelt at Archie's head. "My name is Doctor John Watson. Who are you?" Sherlock noted the strain in John's voice. He was going through the motions of being a physician, but Sherlock could tell John had had his fill of this man, and would have been satisfied to leave him to bleed out on the floor.

"Archie!" the other man whimpered.

"We both know that's not your real name," John pressed.

Sniffing back a sob, the other man groaned. "Vincent Spaulding."

"Vincent, do you recognize me?"

"Yeah... Yes."

"Did you attack and attempt to strangle my associate last night?"

"I... uhm..."

"Do you want to die here? I know you're curious. I stabbed an ink pen into your femoral artery. Right now, with the pen still in there, the tourniquet slowing blood flow, and with the pressure being applied, you'll be fine. All I have to do though is tell this nice young man to back up, and I can pull that pen out, and you'll be gone in," John checked his watch, clearly for impact, "about two minutes."

"God, John." Sherlock gasped. This was a side of John he'd never seen, and didn't know existed. It was dark and intriguing. He wondered how much of this was pure adrenaline, and how much of this was being pulled from previous military experience. Sherlock couldn't tell if Archie was shaking out of fear, or if he was going into shock, but judging by the set of John's jaw, and the fire in his eyes, if he had to guess, he would say fear was the major factor.

"No! No. Okayokayokay... I did. I attacked him. And Jabez Wilson attacked you. My stepdad Duncan Ross hired him." Archie sniveled pathetically, and grabbed for John's hand, "Please, I don't want to die. I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry. I was angry you found out our plan to rob the bank. Please. Please don't let me die."

 _"Oh well done! Neutralized the threat, and forced a confession? John Watson, if I believed in heroes, you would be mine. SH"_

John patted Archie's hand, more out of habit than actual sympathy, and placed it back on his chest. "You'll be fine. Just stay still." John looked at the medic, still keeping pressure on the leg wound. "You doing okay?" The younger man nodded and smiled. "Right. Can somebody help me up? I'm starting to feel..." John started to slump to the side, but a couple of the men who had also stepped forward during the fight were there in an instant to support him and get him to his feet. They were helping him to get situated on a nearby bench when a group of medics and officers rushed into the crowd.

Lestrade, clearly shaken by the scene crouched down in front of John. "John? Hey, you okay? We're gonna get you checked out, yeah?"

"Greg... yeah, fine. My... my wallet and everything... it's in the backpack, in the electronics store. Need to pay for the pillows... Can someone..."

"Geez, John," Lestrade scrubbed his hand over his face. "Stop worrying about everything for two seconds and let someone take care of you, yeah?"

"Doctor Watson?" A teenage girl wearing a green apron approached John's bench timidly. "Would you like some coffee? Our treat. To thank you," she held out a cup.

"That'd be wonderful. Thank you," John smiled weakly. Greg took the cup for him, and pressed it into John's left hand. It was clear his strength was near gone.

"Sir," a man wearing a shirt with the logo of the linens shop approached. "Don't worry about the towels and things, one of our customers paid for them. Actually, eight different customers have offered to pay for them." He smiled kindly.

"Oh... okay. Thanks. Thank you. Please pass along my appreciation," John ducked his head in modesty that could in no way be mistaken for anything other than sincere.

The medics converged then, and the camera kept rolling, though from a distance, in order to allow for some privacy, and to catch a glimpse of Archie being hauled away, handcuffed to a gurney. Sherlock's stomach clenched as he watched John willingly allow himself be loaded on to a gurney rather than walk out under his power.

"Wait! Wait, Doctor Watson!" Someone sprinted up to the gurney, with John's backpack in hand. The videographer moved in closer. "Doctor Watson, everything we were discussing has been taken care of, with a few perks. It's all in here," she patted the backpack. "My manager wanted to thank you for keeping that man from hurting anyone else..."

"Is the lady okay? The one he knocked about?" John's face looked panicked for a moment.

"She's fine. The medics checked her, and she's going home."

"Thank God," John sighed and leaned back.

"Well, anyway, everything's been taken care of. And thank you. Get better soon."

John reached up and clasped the woman's hand, "Thank you," whispered, suddenly looking very exhausted.

"Okay, you guys, get him out of here. Bart's, John? Okay, take him to Bart's. I'll be along soon, yeah John?" Lestrade commandeered the situation. The crowd was thinning, but only slightly. The men who had been prepared to jump in to John's aid were standing in a group around the medic who had helped John with Archie, and they watched after John's gurney with an air of protective interest. As John was wheeled through the crowd, people began to clap and shout encouragements to him. The doctor lifted his hand in sort of wave, but his face was flush with embarrassment at the attention being paid him.

 _"Mycroft, I'd like to send a thank you to the men who offered to help John. SH"_

 _"Done. MH"_

"You catch the whole thing?" Lestrade was addressing the mystery camera person.

"Most of it," the disembodied voice answered. "Not sure who the woman was Doctor Watson mentioned a minute ago. I was over in the food court with some friends working on a project for class when everything started. I got over here before mammoth man started wailing on the doctor though. That dude is crazy!"

"He's a very bad man, caught up in some serious level crime," Lestrade nodded his agreement.

"No, man. Doctor Watson. He's crazy. Half the size of Goliath, took a serious beat down, got tased, and still dropped the big guy like it was his job. And then saved his freaking life. Who does that?"

Lestrade laughed. "Would you believe me if I told you that IS his job? Here," Lestrade handed the person behind the camera a card. "D.I. Greg Lestrade with Scotland Yard. Send me everything you filmed, okay?"

"Sure thing. And detective, you'll let me know how he's doing?"

"Absolutely." They shook hands. "And to answer your question, John Watson. That's who does that." The video ended there.

 _"Mycroft, the film student? SH"_

 _"Identified, and rewarded handsomely. MH"_

That particular video was not even 15 minutes long. That's how quickly the whole thing had happened. Sherlock checked the time, it had been 35 minutes since Lestrade had called. What could possibly be keeping them?

 _"You're punishing me for earlier, aren't you Lestrade? SH"_

Just to occupy his mind, Sherlock clicked on the next video link in the queue. The description contained the phrase "auto tune." Sherlock had no idea what that meant. As the video came up, some rather dubious sounding electronic music started. Sherlock nearly stopped the video when John's voice, clearly digitally manipulated, began in on one of his more colorful strings of obscenities. Fascinated, and most definitely entertained, Sherlock let the video play. The creator of the video had made it clear in his description that the video was a tribute to the epic nature of Doctor Watson, and in no way meant to harm his character.

There was a link to a downloadable version of the song.

"Oh, yes. This will come in handy," Sherlock's grin was deviously shark like.

He played the video four more times. As the video ended the final time, Sherlock glanced up, and there in the doorway stood John, eyes wide, backpack slung over his left shoulder, and a half eaten scone in his left hand, which was frozen halfway to his gaping mouth.

"Nothing!" cried Sherlock in surprise, as he slammed the laptop closed, and nearly dropped it on the floor.

"What. Was. That?"

"Nothing. Nothing, it's nothing," the two men stared at each other. "Just... my new favorite song," Sherlock bit his lip to keep from smiling.

"Oh God, they didn't?" John sighed, limped over to his chair, sat his backpack on the floor and dropped into his seat. He closed his eyes and just sat there, unmoving, for several moments. Opening his eyes he huffed a laugh. "So..."

Sherlock spoke at the same moment. "What..." He cleared his throat, and decided to press on, so John couldn't get out of answering his questions. "Why didn't you tell me you were leaving this morning?"

"I did. Twice, actually. But you were..." John paused and narrowed his eyes. His mouth quirked into a little smile that revealed he knew more than he was letting on, "...uh, 'thinking.' I left you a note."

"No, you didn't," Sherlock crossed his arms in a pout.

"Did. I can see it from here. There..." John pointed to an index card laying just under the couch.

How had that gotten there?

They stared at each other another moment. "No, please, let me," John grunted as he moved to stand up. Sherlock blinked, jumped up, dove over the coffee table and ran his hand under the couch until he felt the card. He stood upright, stepped over the table, and stared down at the card as he stomped back to his chair.

"Sherlock," he read aloud, "Not going to clinic today. Meeting Lestrade for coffee at 7:30, then letting the doctor check me over around 8 at Bart's if you want to meet me. Dr. MacGregor, third floor. Need to drop my phone off to be repaired, it doesn't work at all. Meeting Mycroft at noon. Thought we could meet Lestrade at the Yard to talk about the case after that, and then I need to talk to you about a few things this evening. -John"

Sherlock examined the card carefully, flipped it over, and scrutinized the blank, unlined side in an effort to avoid looking at John.

John cleared his throat. "Mrs. Hudson sends her regards." Sherlock groaned as he looked up in time to see John finish off his scone. John unzipped his backpack, pulled out a recognizable tin, and tossed it to his flat mate. "Don't you dare tell her I shared those with you. We'd be doomed if she hated both of us at once."

"What did she tell you?"

"Enough," John rolled his eyes. "Idiot."

Stopping mid-bite Sherlock sniffed, "Flowers? I thought I told you to get her something NICE John. And Gerber daisies, no less." He shook his head in disgust.

"The flowers were from me. I always buy Mrs. Hudson flowers on May 4th," John's words were deliberate.

"Oh," Sherlock shrugged, followed quickly by another, "OH."

"Figured it out, did you?"

"Eventually, no thanks to your little tea party with Lestrade."

"Ah. I suppose I can thank Mycroft for you seeing that, yeah?" John looked over Sherlock's shoulder to the camera hidden on the bookshelf, pantomimed cutting his throat by dragging a finger across his neck and then pointed at the camera.

"You knew that camera was there?"

"Been there for weeks. It's the least intrusive one yet, so I left it alone hoping he'd leave us alone. Fat lot of good that did." Sherlock laughed in appreciation. "So, if the flowers were from you, what did I get Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh, it's lovely. You got her a fully loaded tablet. Really, quite generous of you. She'd been wanting one, but couldn't justify the expense." John grinned an exasperating grin as Sherlock slumped into his chair. "She's just about ready to forgive you. You might have to show her how to work the thing, if you really want to make things right."

"Johnnn," Sherlock whined. "I meant a cookbook, or, or, I don't know what. Anything really. Anything besides something that would require my involvement. And to that note, how did I pay for the thing if I wasn't with you?"

John paused, "We'll get to that in a minute. Actually, I was going to make you pay for it, but they didn't end up charging me anything. It's the best model out, and they just gave it to me. I take it you saw the video from my 'altercation' earlier. The lady from the phone store told me they took care of everything for me. Didn't realize they cancelled the charge for the tablet. And a few other things."

John dug around in his backpack again, and pulled out the newest version of his phone. "Mine was completely dead after last night. I just went in to replace it, but they upgraded it for me. And here," John tossed Sherlock a box. "New replacement phone. Or use it, and keep the old one for a replacement. I didn't even ask about your phone, they must've looked up the account, and just processed the upgrade. So, there you go."

"Splendid!" Sherlock clapped in glee, and tore open the new box. The new phone was beautiful, the store had charged it, and transferred all of his information. "Excuse me one moment, John."

Sherlock gingerly laid the new phone on the arm of his chair, jumped up and fished his old phone from his jacket pocket. He made it to the stairwell in six long strides, and with all the force he could muster, he threw the mobile down the steps. John jumped in his seat, but refrained from commenting. "Oh ho, yes. YES," Sherlock shouted as he very nearly skipped down the steps, collected the pieces, and then ran back up.

Dropping the broken mobile in the middle of the floor, he retrieved the fireplace poker, and proceeded to smash the remaining bits of phone into fragments. Scooping up the resulting crumbs, Sherlock turned to the nearest window, threw it open and flung the debris out like confetti. He returned to his arm chair and sat down, putting on an air of dignified nonchalance.

Another moment of staring passed between the flat mates.

"New boxers?" John quipped.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and couldn't help the deep laugh that escaped.

"God Sherlock," John snorted.

"I suppose Lestrade told you about the train yard?"

"He did," John nodded. "But Sally sent pictures."

"Of course she did," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John laughed and leaned back down once more to dig through his backpack. "Okay, I picked this up for you too. I hope it will work the way you intended."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Is this... does it... NO. This is for real?" There was more tearing of packages, and Sherlock held in his hands a phone charging dock that looked like an actual desk phone, complete with spiral cord and receiver. He tripped over his own feet as he scrambled to plug the dock cord into the wall outlet next to the table. He inserted his new phone into the cradle, plugged the receiver cord into the headphone jack of his phone, and turned to John. "Call me. Callmecallmecallme. Quick, John!" Sherlock was literally bouncing with excitement.

John sighed.

This really was his own fault.

He dialed Sherlock, and nearly choked when the phone rang and the ringtone was the auto tuned song of him swearing. "When did you even set that? Make it stop! Answer the bloody thing!" John shouted in embarrassment.

Sherlock grinned and answered the call, holding the receiver to his ear.

"Change that ringtone NOW," John shouted into his phone.

"No." And with that, Sherlock slammed down the receiver. John pulled his mobile from his ear in shock. "Marvelous. You, John Watson, you are brilliant." Sherlock proceeded to call John's clinic (Mary answered, to his delight), Lestrade, and Mycroft. As soon as each call was answered, he slammed down the receiver, not saying a word.

Very satisfying indeed. Very.

"No landline required," John added, clearly pleased that Sherlock was pleased.

"It is purple though. I did request black."

"About that. This particular item is marketed to 12 year old girls and grandmothers who are afraid of technology. They had hideous floral, rainbow zebra print, bedazzled pink, and bright purple. I thought you liked purple?"

"Oh, I do. But next time? Zebra print. Always Zebra print, John."

"Shut up," John laughed. "But seriously, change your ringtone."

"Absolutely not. It's my new favorite song." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, daring John to challenge him on this. He had no intention of ever relenting on this one. He maintained his stare until John shifted in his chair, winced in pain and cursed under his breath.

"And now, to the matter at hand," Sherlock took John's admission of pain as an opportunity to finally get some answers. "Status report, doctor."

John sighed. "My original assessment of initial injuries was correct. Dislocated shoulder (which was popped back into place perfectly, no thanks to you!). Four bruised ribs, where I landed on the billiards table. Slight sprain left wrist. No broken bones. Multiple scrapes, cuts and bruises."

"And now?" Sherlock questioned, though there were very visibly more injuries, and John seemed to be favoring his right shoulder even more than he had last night.

"Yeah, this time around was a little worse. Most damage was sustained to my right side. Mr. Spaulding caught sight of a weakness and attempted to exploit it." John flexed his left hand and clenched it. "Glad I'm left handed. Left wrist sprain is more severe. Deep tissue bruising over most my torso. Obvious bruising around my eyes, split lip, no stitches required and no damage to facial bones. Concussion. Six broken ribs. There was initial concern about internal bleeding, but that was ruled out. Though there is bruising to the liver and spleen, so no fighting bad guys for a few months; one wrong punch and I could end up with a bleed. Sprains of the right ankle and knee. Supposed to stay off my leg, but I've got no way to use crutches or cane right now. Broken index and middle finger on right hand, from being kicked. Doctor said my arm being in the sling probably saved me from a rib puncturing a lung. The right shoulder was dislocated again, despite the sling. No nerve damage, but it's going to be very weak for a very long time. And, broken right collar bone."

"Broken? How is that treated?" Sherlock was staring at John's collar bone, doing a very poor job of masking the displeasure he felt at his friend's plight.

"Well, it was a clean break, thank God, so I just keep wearing the sling to keep the bone from moving any at all. In a week I'll go back, they'll check to make sure nothing has moved. If not, it'll probably just heal on its own. If there is movement, then I'll have to have surgery. And physical therapy no matter what." Despite being the one who was injured, John had started speaking in his soothing physician voice, in an effort to calm and comfort Sherlock. It didn't appear to be working.

"It's a good thing Spaulding and Ross are already in custody. Otherwise, I'd kill them both," Sherlock snarled.

John stared back in disbelief.

"You should have let him bleed out when you had the chance, John. After what he did to you, I would have." There was rage in Sherlock's eyes that truly startled John.

"Awfully dark, yeah? You know I couldn't do that. And I know you wouldn't actually either. It wouldn't have been worth it."

"YOU are worth it," Sherlock shouted and punctuated the statement by slamming both fists down on the arms of his chair.

Choosing his words carefully, John replied, "Thank you for saying so. I know that you truly believe that. I do. But it's not what I meant. I would have lost my medical license if I could have helped him, but let him bleed out anyway."

"No judge would have faulted you," Sherlock snapped.

"I would have blamed myself."

"That's insane! John, you were defending yourself!"

"I was," John's tone remained even and calm. "But you know me. I wouldn't have been able to get past the fact that he could have been saved, and I did nothing. And then I would've been an even bigger mental case than I already am. And then you'd really have no use for me." John's smile was unconvincing at best.

"John," Sherlock's voice broke. "How could you ever..."

With a raised hand, John silenced his friend. "Wait, Sherlock. There's something else." John cleared his throat, and shifted uncomfortably. "He um, he was never in any real danger. I didn't actually puncture his femoral artery."

"You lied?" Sherlock gasped, taken completely off guard. "There was so much blood!"

"Well, you stab someone with a blunt enough object, like a pen, and it's going to tear a lot of things. And that wound is deep. I know I hit bone. Made sure of it. That medic was a good sport and played along."

"You lied. To force a confession." The consulting detective thoughtfully considered this fact.

"Apparently that's something I do now. I blame it on the company I keep," John shrugged, and then winced in pain. "God, I keep forgetting."

"You lied. John Watson lied."

"Right. We've established that," John rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand. He had an idea of where Sherlock's line of thinking was headed.

"Any other lies, doctor?" Sherlock retrieved the calling card from the Law Offices of Lakhany, Slate, Vogel, and Weir from his pocket and flipped it across to John.

"Sherlock…"

"Explain this. Now," Sherlock demanded through clenched teeth.

"Just to clarify, you're angry because I have a secret, which is not the same as a lie, and you found out about it whilst you were snooping through my personal belongings?"

"John." The name was said more as a warning than anything else.

"Right. Just making sure we're on the same page." John sighed in resignation. "We weren't supposed to be discussing this like this, with me broken to bits and you all angry and murderous. God, we can't do anything like normal people, can we?" He rifled through his backpack once more and pulled out two leather portfolios. Laying one on the armrest beside him, he held the other one up. "Sherlock Holmes, this is your life."

"Excuse me?"

"A few weeks after your 'death' Mycroft approached me. Told me you left me everything in your will. Said I was to be executor of your estate. Arranged meetings with Mr. Lakhany to settle everything. I was still so distraught, I didn't question anything, didn't actually read anything, and didn't even consider the dubious nature of the whole thing. If I had been paying attention, it certainly would have helped explain a few other things, but I was already so distracted, I figure that's what Mycroft had planned for all along." John glanced up at Sherlock, whose features had softened drastically from the anger of a few moments ago.

"I came back to the flat from those meetings, locked the portfolio in the safe, and never pulled it out again. Never even looked at it to see what it was I was executor of. Now that I know, I'm pretty angry at myself. I would have sold all this crap and moved someplace tropical." John attempted a smile, though it never made it to his eyes.

Sherlock huffed a laugh. "I wish you would have. John, I'm so sorry…"

"No, Sherlock. Don't, please," John inhaled deeply and continued. "When you came back, the very next day, I pulled out the portfolio, and had Mycroft arrange a meeting with Mr. Lakhany. Figured you'd want your stuff back, and that it would be easier for everyone involved if I could get started without involving you. Turns out, it's a lot more complicated to bring someone back to life than it is to kill them, especially on paper. It's taken this whole time to get everything sorted, but finally, you are officially listed back among the living. But now you have to make a choice, do you want me to sign my access to your information fully back over to you, or do you want to keep me listed as someone who has access? And you can determine the level of access I have. Do you want me to have access to banking information? To medical records, and for making medical decisions? Or to stand in proxy for you, even in legal matters?"

John handed the portfolio to Sherlock. "It's all set up. You just have to sign the appropriate lines. And just know, you won't hurt my feelings, no matter what you decide."

Sherlock was speechless. Truly, fully speechless.

"You're alive, Sherlock Holmes." John's smile was genuine this time.

"John, I… How can I ever thank you? I don't… Of course I want you to have access. To everything." Sherlock stammered.

"I'm glad to hear you say that, because this," John held up the second portfolio, "Is all of me. Granted, my assets are nothing to be impressed by, and if you sold all my crap you wouldn't be able to move down the street, let alone someplace tropical. But it's all there. Access to everything, banking, medical, and legal. All you have to do is sign the line accepting responsibility, but only if you're comfortable doing so." He handed the second portfolio to Sherlock.

"John, why…"

"I know it's long been a dream of yours to get your hands on my military personnel file. It's in there. Some of it's redacted, but if there's anything you have questions about, I'll do my best to answer them. Also, and I did lie to about this, and I'm sorry, but my MI6 personnel file is there too. Of course, almost all of that has been redacted, and I can't really elaborate on any of that, but it's there too."

"MI6? Wait. You…" Sherlock was starting to get agitated again. "I'm going to kill Mycroft."

"Oh, come off it. You KNEW I was helping sort through medical records and doing background research on potential threats. When you came back Mycroft TOLD me he sent you my notes. I know you knew, Sherlock. Unless we have a case, I still report on Tuesdays. Don't you ever wonder where I go when I'm not here with you?"

"Your calendar shows 'work' listed, I assumed clinic! Why would you keep working for Mycroft? He was supposed to end the contract when I came home! And why wouldn't either of you tell me?" Sherlock had moved beyond anger to hurt. The fact that his best friend would willingly work with his brother was truly alarming. "Wait. So when I came back, did Mycroft tell you he knew about me? And that little obscene display, with agents and the tires, was all for my benefit? To keep me in the dark?"

John ducked his head. "Yeah, sorry about that. Mycroft thought it would be best if you didn't know. If it makes it any better, I was genuinely angry with him. He didn't know I was going to slash the tires. He's still mad I'm telling you now." John made eye contact with the camera. "And why do I do it? Because I love it. It's fascinating. And while you were gone, it was something I could do to feel like I was contributing to society again. It's the reason I started reviewing abuse cases for Scotland Yard as a medical consultant."

"WHAT? You failed to mention that one as well."

"No, no I didn't. Every Thursday, as long as we are not on a case. I showed you my credentials? You pickpocketed them, and I had to pay to get them replaced?"

Sherlock crossed his arms and exhaled deeply in frustration. "He never sends you on missions, does he? Because if something were to happen to you…"

"No, never field work. Just research. Though, not for lack of trying on my part. Especially while you were gone. But now that you're back? I've got more than enough adventure to deal with." At that, John pointed at his right shoulder. "I just, I didn't want to keep any secrets from you. When I thought you were dead, it nearly killed me. I don't want to not know. Ever again. And I couldn't ask that of you without being able to offer the same back."

"So why? Why go through all of this?" Sherlock held up the folders. "Why not just tell me the truth? Unless… No…" With that the portfolios were tossed to the side and Sherlock was on his knees crowding in on John's personal space, grasping onto John's left hand as if he were about to slip away forever, and staring into his eyes.

"You're dying. I'm an idiot. How could I have not seen it?" Sherlock was truly frantic. John could see his flat mate's mind working as he tried to fit the pieces together. "Oh, it all makes sense, settling your estate, the oncology doctor. God, John. When were you going to tell me? What is it? What's the course of action? Mycroft will make sure we can get you the very best care."

"Sherlock…"

"You can't die. Do you hear me? I won't allow it. I nearly lost my mind when I only thought you were in danger. I don't know what I would do if you actually died." Sherlock was near tears at this point.

Sherlock Holmes was crying.

"Sherlock…"

"No John, I have something I have to say. It can't wait any longer," Sherlock inhaled deeply and steeled his nerves. "I am rubbish at sentiment. You know this. I am unpleasant, rude, obnoxious, and generally dismissive of anyone who does not fit my idea of worthy, which is nearly everyone. Then I met you, and, I still, to this day, do not understand it. How is it possible that the bravest, kindest, wisest, most complex person I have ever had the good fortune to encounter actually chose to be my friend? My best friend, in fact. You have endured so much. Even when you thought I was dead, you never really abandoned me, but continued the work. You've sacrificed for me, endured torture (occasionally at my own hand) for me, killed for me, and as recently as today, nearly been killed for me. I may be ignorant when it comes to emotions and how the human heart works, but even I know that what we are is unique. It's not a romantic sort of love, but it is love all the same, isn't it? I think I finally understand. Friends, companions, associates, brothers in arms. There isn't a label to describe us. We're Sherlock and John. And from this moment on, I swear, I will spend the rest of your days trying to be for you all that you have been to me, no matter how many days that is."

Sherlock sat back on his heels, head bowed, still gripping John's hand, waiting for John to react. It didn't really matter how John responded, Sherlock had poured out his heart, and he had meant every word.

"God Sherlock," John was crying now too. "That was… beautiful." He squeezed Sherlock's hands. "Hey, look at me. That was beautiful. Perfect. I could never in a million years have hoped to ever hear those words from anyone, but you have no idea how happy I am that it was you. You're right, what we have is unique. And peculiar. And yes, it is love in its own right. I don't even know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything."

"Well, no, I really do," John bit his lip to keep from smiling. "God, you're going to hate me. Sherlock, you idiot, I'm not dying. God."

With that revelation, Sherlock yanked his hands from John's and scrambled backwards frantically, until he bumped into the barrier of his arm chair. "What. What? But, the estate? And the oncology doctor? WHAT?"

"I told you why I wanted to give you access to my records. No more secrets. And Doctor MacGregor, Matt, is an old friend from university. We served a tour together in Afghanistan. We're both notoriously bad patients, and find civilian general practitioners unbearable, so we agreed to treat each other. He sees me at his office, and I see him at the clinic. He's just my doctor, Sherlock."

"You're really not dying?" Sherlock whispered.

"Not yet any way," John laughed.

Pulling himself up into his chair, Sherlock sat back with a growl. "I hate you."

"Nope. No you don't. I think you actually just told me you love me."

"That was stated under duress, while I was under the assumption that you were terminally ill. The statement is null and void."

"Who made the assumption? I never implied once that I was dying. You came to that conclusion on your own," John still grinned, and shook his head. "Idiot."

"I still hate you," Sherlock snapped, sounding very much like a petulant three year old.

"Yeah, I love you too Sherlock."

"Hate. I. Hate. You." Sherlock pointed at John.

"Mm hm. Do you want some tea? I think I'm going to make some tea." John moved to stand up, and gasped as pain radiated up his right leg. He sat back down quickly. "Okay, pain meds first."

"Oh, just sit down! Don't be a child, John," Sherlock stood and slid a footstool over to John's chair. "You should've had that elevated this whole time anyway. And you're probably in need of an ice pack. You really ought to be more attentive when it comes to caring for your injuries."

Sherlock stomped into the kitchen and started slamming drawers and cabinets, and filling the kettle. He stalked back in with two packs of frozen peas wrapped in kitchen towels, and thrust them out to John. "Here."

"Thank you?" John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.

"Welcome," Sherlock grumbled as he turned away. When he reached the kitchen doorway, he stopped and turned slowly. "John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Will you, some day, when you're ready, tell me what you and Lestrade were doing on the roof of St. Bart's today? I… I didn't like seeing you up there. I don't want you to go up there anymore."

"Yeah. Um, yes, of course. We meet up there on your… uh, anniversary… every year. I can tell you about it, if you really want." John looked uncertain.

"I do. I really want to know."

"I'll ask Mycroft to send over the videos. That'll help explain." John pulled out his mobile.

" _Mycroft, can you send me the videos of Greg and me on the roof of Bart's? All of them? JW"_

" _Are you sure, John? MH"_

" _I think it's time. JW"_

Sherlock set two mugs of tea on the coffee table. "Maybe the couch would be more comfortable? You can put your foot up, and we can put the laptop between us?"

"Fine, that will work," John nodded in agreement, and moved more carefully to stand. He slowly made his way over, distracted as he allowed Sherlock to help him get settled. They both looked up startled when an incoming messaged pinged on the laptop.

"John?"

"If we're going to do this, you cannot interrupt me," John's voice wavered. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "No, Sherlock. No. You always talk, and I always listen. I may not understand, but I always listen. And eventually you help me to see. Well, it's my turn to talk now."

"But, I was alive John," Sherlock condescended.

John looked away, and took a deep breath. "Yes, Sherlock, I know that now. But I wasn't."


	6. Afterward: Latent

Most people will, in their lifetime, be forced into a "come to terms with it" situation at least once.

Sometimes that situation is a spectacular personal failure on the deepest level.

Or perhaps it's the implosion of a family unit, no matter the definition.

There's the sort where a long sought after dream - bought most literally with blood, sweat, and tears - frays around the edges. The dream can be patched, stitched and reinforced, but all it takes is one snag and the whole thing comes unraveled at once.

Most people, if you ask them, and if they are honest with themselves, will admit that their "come to terms with it" moment came as a result of loss.

Most people will agree that the deepest loss involves death.

Deep loss is more than the tug of the heart felt when a member of the community passes. It's not even the tears that are shed for the loved one gone too soon, but "at least they're not in pain."

No.

Deep loss is what happens when there is physical death in one body that elicits the death of soul, heart, and will in another body. The second body remains among the living on a molecular level, going through the learned motions of everyday. Or not, because, it doesn't really matter now does it?

But the pain of deep loss is not simply emotional. It snakes its way into the mind of its victim, toying with reason and obliterating judgment.

And the physical pain. Oh God, the physical pain. The dull throb of the head that never goes away. Leaden weariness that permeates every muscle and sucks the life from the very marrow of bones. Lungs that can't ever seem to fill to capacity. Eyes that burn like fire because they just need to sleep, but when they are tucked into the safety of darkness behind heavy lids, they refuse to stay there because the darkness invites perhaps the greatest affront of all...

Deep loss has a way of recalling. Everything. The good and the bad. The memories that are hidden away, whether on purpose, or as a means of self-preservation. Deep loss cares little for chronological order. Nor does it invest the effort to comfort it's victim. Deep loss revels in and gleans strength from the most haunting memories, the hurts inflicted, the words said in anger, or worse, the words left unsaid.

Physical death forces the permanent cessation of the beating heart, stealing away the fragile spark that is the miracle of human life.

It's actually quite merciful.

Because the deep loss left in death's wake torments those in its grasp by allowing them to remain alive, yet clutching their still beating hearts in icy claws, splaying open their very being, revealing weakness and leaving screaming nerves exposed to the harsh and unforgiving world.

Most people agree, in the case of coming to terms with deep loss, the individual growing cold and stiff, the one for whom others mourn, is the lucky one.

John Watson understands deep loss. He knows too well the exhaustion that results from working too hard to avoid at all costs coming to terms. There is within the darkest recesses of John Watson's heart an underlying jealousy of the one who was laid to rest under the shiny black granite monument.

A longing for the solitude of death.

He should probably be alarmed when the longing never really dies away, despite the dearly departed not actually being departed any longer.

But when one comes to terms with something, it's nearly impossible to undo. The memories of that choice become driving forces.

Most people cling to the hope that time heals all wounds.

Most people don't actually believe it does.

But most people welcome the dulling effect that comes with the passing of years. They are left with glimpses of the past, cobbled together into a nostalgic filmstrip that can be played back at any time. The mind movie, no matter the content, becomes safe, allowing the viewer to look back and recall events, as one who was present, without inserting themselves back into harm's way. They know the event impacted them, but when they review the past they do not have to watch themselves fall apart simply because they were the ones behind the camera.

Unfortunately for John Watson, he finds himself seated across from the one person who he is fairly confident has never come to terms with anything. Not even his own death. The only terms Sherlock Holmes has ever agreed to are his own, never mind the cost.

Between them rests a laptop. The screen is illuminated with images John Watson never wanted to see. Images of his own unraveling, of the coming to terms forced upon him by the very one sitting across from him.

"If we're going to do this, you cannot interrupt me," John's voice wavers. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "No, Sherlock. No. You always talk, and I always listen. I may not understand, but I always listen. And eventually you help me to see. Well, it's my turn to talk now."

It seems unfair that John should have to relive these memories, not in the safety of his mind as a silent participant, but as a spectator.

Though, he never really did fit in with "most people."

There is, however, no ready escape for the doctor. He is held captive by quick, all seeing eyes. Calculating eyes that flit from the waiting image on the screen to his own face, searching, impatiently, for meaning, for understanding.

Sherlock Holmes will never understand.

John Watson acknowledges and resigns himself to the fact that Sherlock will never understand.

But he recognizes the opportunity afforded him, no thanks to Mycroft Holmes and his "minor" position within the British Government (Mycroft, as opposed to his younger brother, is fully familiar with coming to terms. A great number of lives depend on his "minor" position, and there are days when the situations requiring "coming to terms" inundate. Relentlessly).

Though Sherlock may never understand - in all likelihood, not only will he not understand, but he will reject the premise as senseless, gratuitous sentimentality - there is always potential. Maybe this time John can help Sherlock to see. He won't have to understand, just see.

"But, I was alive John," Sherlock condescends.

And patiently - the kind of patience only John Watson is capable of - John responds, "Yes, Sherlock, I know that now. But I wasn't."


End file.
